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FATHER’S HOUSE 


Wv<w^W , — v - 

HOWE BENNING, 

AUTHOR OF “HESTER LENOX.” 



AMERICAN TRACT SOCIETY, \ 

ISO NASSAU STREET, NEW YORK. 



COPYRIGHT, 1880, 

BY AMERICAN TRACT SOCIETY. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER I. 

The Daily Work page 5 

CHAPTER II. 

Daily Temptations - 21 

CHAPTER III. 

The Beginning of the End 39 

CHAPTER IV. 

Introductions 53 

CHAPTER V. 

The New Appointment 71 

CHAPTER VI. 

One’Evening - 84 

CHAPTER VII. 

New Duties 107 

CHAPTER VIII. 

All About an Old Coat 121 


4 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER IX. 

Giving and Getting 134 

CHAPTER X. 

A Journey and Visit - 148 

CHAPTER XI. 

Holiday Gifts 167 

CHAPTER XII. 

Willie 187 

CHAPTER XIII. 

Waiting 213 

CHAPTER XIV. 

Old Friends 230 

CHAPTER XV. 

Found at Last 244 

CHAPTER XVI. 

The Reward 266 


Father’s House, 


CHAPTER I. 

THE DAILY WORK. 

It was high noon in the “Valley Falls Cotton 
Mills.” There were many other factories of the same 
description up and down the mile of rapid river that 
had decided the location of the thriving village of Val- 
ley Falls, but these of “ Hart & Trask ” were the oldest 
and largest, and so of course had the choice of names. 

Here, some fifteen minutes earlier, the noisy bell 
had rung out a welcome clangor that announced the 
three-quarters of an hour of nooning. Girls had 
snatched off the long aprons that nearly covered them, 
and tossed them aside, and then boys and girls, men 
and women, some giving a jerk to their elbows that 
sent the sleeves a little nearer the wrists, a few throw- 
ing a piece of shawl or an apron or torn hat on their 
heads, but some bare armed and headed, crowded 
down the long stairs and passed the great doors into 


6 


FATHER'S HOUSE. 


the glare of the hot September sun. The air of the 
narrow lanes, that was fragrant with odors of cabbage 
and onions, and roasting meats, rang with the coarse 
jest and shrill laugh. Most of these workers were go- 
ing to hot, stifling kitchens, but they would find tables 
spread with food ample in quantity, however the qual- 
ity might speak of the ignorance of cooks ; and they 
were hungry enough to enjoy even the promise in the air. 

Those were the palmy days for operatives soon 
after the close of the war, and money was flush on 
these lanes, though the sad fact was, it never remained 
there. It seemed to be impossible in the nature of 
things for wages to last from one pay-day to another. 

Back in the second story of the mill the great weav- 
ing-room was now nearly deserted. The machines 
that whirled and throbbed as if instinct with life twelve 
hours out of the twenty-four, stood silent and motion- 
less. There was a smell of oil in the air, but the win- 
dows on every side were open, and the slight breeze 
from the river swayed the loose cotton curtains, and 
gently moved in the streams of sunlight the tiny fluffs 
of cotton that were a part of the worker’s atmosphere. 

It was a common and not unwelcome scene to the 
little group of weavers gathered in one corner, eating 
their lunch from tin pails with a coffee compartment 
below. There were only four of them, and they lived 
too far away to go home at noon. That was what 
Kate Marsh was scolding about. 


THE DAILY WORK . 


7 


“It’s mean as can be. Father might get bigger 
wages here; but he’s been at Hall’s so long he wont 
change ; so I have to live on that lane and have my 
long tramp to suit him. I ’d come away and board at 
the boardinghouse, but that takes money, and I’m 
sharp enough to stay where I get good board for noth- 
ing,” she said with a coarse laugh. Kate’s face 
matched the laugh; even the color on her cheek was 
high. 

“ I thought your father was n’t strong enough to do 
what they want here,” said a pale, sickly-looking girl 
opposite. 

“So he says,” rejoined Kate carelessly; “I don’t 
believe it would matter much.” 

There was another girl leaning out of the window 
and idly dropping crumbs, and a woman many years 
older than the others, who had finished her lunch and 
dropped the paper into the stream and now sat leaning 
back against a post, with eyes closed and no expres- 
sion of interest on the large strong features. But the 
girl roused up, exclaiming, 

“ For shame, Kate, your father looks badly enough. 
But do n’t you pay any board ?” 

“No, do you?” 

“Yes, two dollars a week.” 

“ What ’s the use of having friends if you can’t use 
’em?” said Kate with a toss of her head. “ I ’ve uses 
enough for my money, and you’re a goose, Hilda 


8 


FATHER'S HOUSE. 


Duncan, if you do n’t know it. ‘ Look out for number 
one ’ is the best motto I know of. See here, how much 
wages do you get now ?” 

“I’ll get ten dollars to-day, but it’s the first; I 
never had but seven before, but I have six looms 
now.” 

“And you a’ n’t bad looking either,” remarked 
Kate; “only you haven’t any style. I tell you, Hilda 
Duncan, if you ’d ever wear anything, you ’d make 
quite a figure. You’re a sight better looking than 
Fan Kellogg now, but somehow she shows off more.” 

“ I ’ve just got a new linen dress,” ventured Hilda, 
hesitatingly. 

“ Pshaw, what ’s a linen dress ? Have you seen my 
new silk ?” 

“ No, have you got one?” 

“ Yes ; both my others were getting too dowdy and 
old-fashioned. Ma says I ’m awful on clothes ; but I 
tell her my money ’s my own, I ’ve been eighteen more 
than a year. I ’ve got a piece of my dress down in my 
hat I ’ll show you.” 

She came back in a minute with a sample of very 
heavy, rich-looking brown silk. 

“Oh what a beauty!” the girls exclaimed as the 
brown turned to gold in the bright sunlight. 

“ I fancy ’t is,” said Kate. “ Ought to be, at any 
rate. I paid three dollars a yard for it, and it takes 
twenty-five yards to make a dress. I tell you, it more 


THE DAILY WORK. 


9 


than emptied my purse; pa had to come down with 
the last X ; and I ’ve the trimmings and making to pay 
for yet. Miss Shelby says she must have twelve dol- 
lars to make it up in style, and I get lace at two dollars 
a yard to trim.” 

“Where’ll you wear it when you get it?” asked 
the pale girl, whose name was Anna Morrison. 

“Wear it?” exclaimed Kate, firing up as though 
that were a sore point ; “ why where I ’ve a mind to, of 
course. I ’m going to have a bonnet like it, and then 
I fancy Judge Harris’ fine daughter will see that I can 
look as fine as she any day, if I am a factory-girl.” 

“ She ’ll never see you,” replied Anna, who had the 
mosquito faculty of inflicting small stings. Kate did not 
condescend to notice this, but drawing a fashion plate 
from her pocket, descanted to Hilda on the comparative 
merits of puffs and ruffles and plaitings, and soon the 
three were harmonious in their enthusiasm over the 
womanly subject. 

The noon hour was wearing away ; already the voices 
of the small boys were heard outside disputing over 
marbles, when a well-dressed, indolent-looking young 
man, removing a cigar from his lips to his fingers, came 
sauntering down between the looms and joined the little 
group. 

“ Something new on the docket. Did you know ?” 
he asked lazily, putting out his hand and helping him- 
self to the fashion plate. 


Father’s House. 


2 


IO 


FATHER'S HOUSE. 


“ What?” asked Kate, tossing back her curl. Now 
that curl was quite an' important part of Kate. There 
were certain ones jealous of the brilliant red and white of 
her complexion, who said that even if Kate’s head 
looked as though it had been “ slept in ” a week, that 
one curl always hung long and smooth down her back, 
and under the management of its owner became quite 
expressive of various states of feeling. In one sense, if 
not naturally, it was really quite a part of her. 

“ Lectures,” answered the young man tersely. 

“ Where ?” asked Kate again. 

“At Town Hall.” 

“What kind?” It was Hilda’s question this time, 
and a close observer might have noticed a slight differ- 
ence in the manner of the young man’s answer. 

“ All kinds, if one may say so. A professor gives 
them, and there are twelve in the course, one every 
week; chemical and philosophical mostly, I believe, 
with experiments; and three dollars for the course; 
low, you see, for the special benefit of the mill hands.” 

“ Well, I ’ve no money for that,” said Kate with a 
decided toss. “I can use all my small change; and 
as for school lectures, I got quit of them at twelve, and 
do n’t think I shall take ’em up again.” 

The young man looked at Hilda questioningly. 

“ I have n’t thought yet,” she replied to the glance. 

“Judge Harris and Uncle Trask are very much 
interested in the plan,” remarked the young man. 


THE DAILY WORK. 


ii 


“They are two of seven to bear all expenses, and I 
heard Connie Harris say last night she would n’t miss 
them for anything; and Cousin Madge is wild over the 
plan.” 

Arthur Sibley was Mr. Trask’s nephew, and was 
supposed to be employed in the office, though there 
were those ungracious enough to say that his chief 
business was smoking and reading novels. But he 
was quite the ideal of the weaving room. His very 
indolence and careless ease were refreshing to these 
often tired and over-worked girls; the glimpses that 
he gave them of a different life were like pictures from 
fairy land. He was unfailingly good natured too, 
and really enjoyed giving happiness in his own way, 
that is when it cost him no effort and ministered to his 
own self-conceit in the bargain. 

But while we have been introducing the young man 
and his general character, Kate has been settling sev- 
eral points of importance in her own mind. Now she 
asked, “ Have they got the new lamps in the Hall 
yet ?” 

“ Putting them in now, I believe,” replied Sibley. 

“ Kate is wondering if her new dress will show off,” 
remarked Anna maliciously. “ If it will, she ’ll change 
her mind about going.” 

“ Be quiet, Anna Morrison,” said Kate shortly. “ I 
don’t account to anybody for where I go or don’t 
go.” 


12 


FATHER'S HOUSE. 


“Got a new dress, then, have you, Miss Marsh ?” 
remarked Sibley pacifically ; “ though of course I know 
what it means when a lot of girls have their heads to- 
gether over a fashion-plate — new feathers somewhere. 
May I be permitted to inquire what particular style you 
are about to adorn with your wearing ?” turning over 
the leaves. 

“ Perhaps you can assist me,” replied Kate, with 
the airiest flirt of the curl ; “ your taste is so perfect.” 

“ Ask Miss Duncan there ; she can tell you.” 

“ Oh, Hilda is as quiet as a mouse. But I expect 
you ’ll see different things after this. She ’s making her 
ten dollars now as well as others ; and really, Mr. Sib- 
ley, do n’t you think it ’s a person’s business to look 
just as well as possible?” 

“ Of course I do,” was the young man’s answer. 
“ What a tame world it would be if everybody wore 
Quaker uniform. Now look here,” pointing to the plate 
on which were represented some dozen figures, all 
looking like Paris dolls in a window, “ is n’t that more 
refreshing ? That ’s the way good society shows itself. 
A well-dressed woman is a welcome sight anywhere ;” 
and Mr. Sibley rose, stretched himself, and commenced 
a lively banter with the group around, for the bell was 
calling, and the refreshed workers were donning their 
aprons and arm-protectors for the long afternoon, until 
half-past six should release them again. 

Hilda rose also, with a little sigh. She had been an 


THE DAILY WORK. 


13 


eager listener, and when Arthur Sibley had said “good 
society,” there had been a little start as though a tender 
chord were touched. 

Hilda Duncan was different from the other mill- 
girls ; that was evident from her appearance, as well as 
Sibley’s manner to her. Her mother, a well-educated 
and intelligent woman, had been a teacher before Wes- 
ley Duncan won her ; and though, owing to her hus- 
band’s ill health and very narrow means, her married 
life had been a contracted dne, until four years before, 
when she entered into the fulness of the life beyond, yet 
this oldest child had shared her spirit, and caught the 
ideas that made Mrs. Duncan’s plain little home and 
table so different from those about her. 

Hilda was fifteen at her mother’s death, a brown- 
eyed, brown-haired girl, with broad brow and a thought- 
ful face, earnestly studying to prepare herself to teach, 
and looking forward with enthusiasm to an active place 
in the busy world. That loss changed all her plans. 
Mr. Duncan, never strong in health and a little prone 
to look upon his life as peculiarly full of disappoint- 
ments, missed the stronger heart upon which he had 
leaned, and the daughter found that her slight hand 
must learn to bear many burdens. Beside herself there 
was Robert, two years younger, and Alice, who was 
eleven, and little Bessie, only two years old. For two 
years she was the busy housekeeper, and then it seemed 
necessary that something more should be done, for the 


14 


FA THER'S HOUSE . 


prudent head of an older person was missed, and there 
were many doctor’s bills besides. So Alice left school, 
and Hilda found a place in the mill, beginning on small 
wages as spooler, and gradually working her way up to 
the highest place allowed to a woman in that mill — the 
running of six looms. 

All that it had cost Hilda, the giving up of her cher- 
ished dreams and plans, none may know. What it 
made of her, you will see in time. 

The bell stopped, the great wheel began to revolve 
far below, and in the weaving-room the belts com- 
menced their endless rounds, and the looms, few at first 
and irregularly, and then more in number and louder, 
were set at work again, until at last the great room 
seemed one wave of motion and noise. The breeze 
from the river freshened, and the curtains swayed back 
and forth, while the beams of sunlight crept into the 
western window and lay on the oily floor in longer and 
longer lines. 

“Five o’clock,” said one, pointing to the shining 
bar ; “ I always know the time by that crack, and this 
week it ’s about five.” 

“ It ’s long enough,” grumbled another. 

“ Did you see Sibley, a few minutes ago, riding past 
with Madge Trask ? It ’s well he do n’t have to furnish 
the butter for his bread.” 

“ Or the bread, either, for that matter,” returned 
another, as the three separated to their work. 


THE DAILY WORK. 


5 


As for Hilda, she also had caught a glimpse of the 
light buggy whirling up the opposite side of the river ; 
but her thought had been of Miss Trask, what it must 
be to be with her, cultured, refined, as she had seen her 
come in sometimes to show guests the works. On her 
eastern side of the room the curtains were quite back, 
and she could look out on the shadows of overhanging 
trees in the pond, and farther on, past the scattered 
houses of that end of the village, up to the range of 
mountains, silver blue in the afternoon glow, until lost 
in the deeper blue of the sky. And so, working and 
dreaming, the afternoon wore away until the shadow 
of the tall factory stretched far up the river towards the 
mountains, and the day of noisy work was ended. 

They went out through the office that night, and 
Hilda received the crisp new note for ten dollars, that, 
ever since her talk with Kate that noon, had seemed 
at times so much and again so little. 

“ Keep that for a nest-egg,” whispered Kate, who 
came next. “ You ’d look lovely in a nice silk, and you 
ought to have one nice dress to your name. I saw the 
loveliest blue, almost navy-blue, with white sprigs, in 
at Meeker’s, and only two dollars a yard. Put your 
eye on that ; you deserve it.” 

“ Come in with me and look at it,” pursued Kate, 
after some further talk, as they walked up the street 
together. “ We can slip in at the side-door,” as Hilda 
hesitated and glanced at their dress, “ and I ’ve my but- 


1 6 


FATHER'S HOUSE. 


tons to get ; the silk counter is at this end and they 
went in. 

They found no difficulty in being waited on, though 
in work-dress, for the merchants well knew there were 
no freer-handed customers than these same factory- 
girls ; so the shining fabric was spread out before them 
and set off to the best possible advantage. 

“ It is lovely,” said Hilda. 

“ One of the handsomest things we ever had in the 
store,” said the obsequious clerk. 

“ Can we have a sample ?” asked Kate. 

“ Of course ; here ’s a place where I cut a sample 
for Miss Evarts from New York ; I ’ll take it off there,” 
replied the clerk. 

At this moment two elegantly-attired ladies swept 
down in their direction, and the girls hastened away. 

“ Ah, indeed !” the elder lady was saying supercil- 
iously. “ So this blue silk, even, is looked after by fac- 
tory-girls, is it ?” 

“The idea!” exclaimed the younger; a remark to 
the sense of which the clerk’s derisive smile gave full 
assent. The ladies were Mrs. Hart and her daughter, 
of the family of Mr. Hart, senior partner in the “ Val- 
ley Falls Mills.” 

As for Hilda, she went towards home fully deter- 
mining in her own mind that that beautiful silk, or 
some similar one, must be her own as soon as she could 
earn it. Good clothes meant “ good society meant 


THE DAILY WORK. 


1 7 


“ welcome,” Mr. Sibley had said, and Hilda longed for 
this, and impatiently stifled a protest of her better sense 
against making this good-natured but idle and ineffi- 
cient young man her judge in the matter. 

As she passed up her own street after leaving Kate, 
she heard her name called in a familiar voice, and turn- 
ed to wait the coming of a large, fresh-looking woman, 
many years her senior, whose rapid pace soon brought 
them together. 

“ Good-evening, Lissa,” said Hilda. 

“ The even is good indeed,” was the reply in an 
accent that spoke of foreign birth. “ And how went 
the day with ye ?” 

“ About as usual, I suppose,” replied Hilda, with a 
shrug ; “ they ’re all hard enough.” 

“ Never say that, bairn, so long as the bones and 
marrow do n’t fret within. A house can weather any 
storm if there ’s no decay in the timber. Be thankful, 
lass, for the clear eye and the ready foot.” 

Just then she caught a glimpse of the shining bit in 
Hilda’s hand. “ What ’s that ?” she asked. 

“ Is n’t it a beauty ?” answered Hilda, spreading it 
out on her palm. 

“ That ’s as it may be,” was the reply. “ It would n’t 
look well to a sailor, to spread out in a storm.” 

“ Of course not,” laughed Hilda, half vexed. 

“ Nor it wouldn’t add to its beauty,” continued the 
woman, with a swift glance at the young face beside 
3 


Father's House. 


8 


FATHER'S HOUSE. 


her, “ trailing through one of these narrow factory 
lanes, bedraggling itself like a swan in a muck-pond.” 

“ I do n’t care about the lanes,” spoke up Hilda 
hotly ; “ but why have n’t I just as good a right to wear 
such a dress as your Miss Harris, for instance ? What ’s 
the reason she must have all the good and pretty things 
any more than I ? I ’ve no doubt I ’d look as well as 
she, if I could only dress as well for once.” 

“You’re a bonny enough lass,” was the woman’s 
quiet reply. 

“ Well, what ’s the reason I can’t, then ?” still ques- 
tioned the girl. 

“ Miss Connie wears nice enough dresses,” answered 
the woman, “but I don’t think it’s the best part of 
her that’s outside after all. She’d be herself in a calico 
and a factory just as much; it’s the inside dress that 
counts.” 

“Well, can’t we have both, inside and outside 
too?” 

“Not if we ’re most anxious about the outside one; 
the other’s sure to go. Commence putting on the 
trimmings inside, and they’ll work out and show in 
time.” 

“O dear!” exclaimed the young girl, “I’m all 
discouraged. There’s no use in anything. I’ll just 
never, never get what I want.” 

“ And what is it, lass, that the good Lord is too 
poor to give ye?” asked the woman pityingly. 


THE DAILY WORK. 


19 

' “Why, nothing, of course, Lissa; but I wouldn’t 
think of asking him for such things.” 

“ Then they can’t be things worth your having ; mind 
ye that, lass. He who bade us pray for the ‘ daily bread ’ 
meant to satisfy all the hungers of the heart and head, 
as well as the stomach that craves its portion; but he 
did n’t say anything about sweetmeats or the like, so it 
strikes me that we ’re not to go behind the spirit of the 
text,” answered Lissa. 

“I can’t help it; I am just hungry for the ‘sweet- 
meats’ that I see others have, and that I can’t have,” 
returned the girl quickly, and brushing past her com- 
panion Hilda ran swiftly up the stairs to her own 
second-floor home. 

The woman looked after her a moment sadly, and 
then resumed her walk, saying half aloud, “ Poor bairn, 
poor bairn ; it ’s a hard lesson, but she ’s got the real 
inside, and I must pray the good Lord to work in her 
to his own glory.” 

Thirty-five years before, when Lawyer Harris 
brought his young bride to her new home in Valley 
Falls, there came also to its kitchen strong, pleasant- 
faced, Scotch Lissa Malcolm. Through all these years 
she had been “ at the fore.” She had held the blankets 
while the scales weighed the new atoms of humanity. 
To her hand they had come for the tarts shaped like 
heather leaves, and she had been the one to throw the 
fateful slipper after the newly-made bride, while in a 


20 


FATHER'S HOUSE. 


secret corner of her trunk there had been hidden, with 
a hand no less tender than that of the mother, the 
tiny slipper of the one whom the angels called so early. 
No wonder the now portly judge called her “the right 
hand of his household.” 

She had known Mrs. Duncan and taken her into 
the warm corner of her heart, and many a hard place 
had her advice helped over, and many a burden her 
strong hand lifted for the little family. 

Now, as she walked on, she was truly committing 
them, as often before, to the best of Helpers, “who 
wont forget the mother’s prayers,” she mused, “any 
the more, because she’s waiting now in his own pres- 
ence above to see them answered.” 


DAIL V TEMPTA TIONS. 


21 


CHAPTER II. 

DAILY TEMPTATIONS. 

It was in a very unsatisfied frame of mind that 
Hilda opened the door of her own home that evening. 
And yet it was not an unpleasant picture that was 
revealed to her after her long day of work. Her fre- 
quent delays on the way had given the sun a chance 
to finish up his day’s work in Valley Falls, and the 
dusk of evening was beginning to creep into the yet 
unlighted room. The two windows of the kitchen 
were open to let out the heat from the stove, from which 
came odors very welcome to one who had taken only a 
cold lunch since morning. Near the window Rob sat 
with a yesterday’s paper, and on the lounge Bessie was 
busy with a rag effigy, as beautiful in her eyes as any 
of the gay dolls in the shop-windows. 

Alice came out of a bedroom as she heard the door 
open, and there was a very tired look on her young 
face. “ How late you are, Hilda,” she said ; “ I thought 
you would never come. Father has been in and gone 
out again to the grocery ; we ’re all out of tea again. 
How everything does go.” 

Hilda made no reply, but brushed into the room 
from which her sister had come and which the three 


22 


FATHER'S HOUSE. 


girls shared in common, and after carefully hiding her 
cherished sample at the bottom of her fancy box and 
washing and brushing herself, returned to the kitchen. 

“ I ’m almost starved,” whined Bessie, tossing Fannie 
Furbelow into the corner. 

“So are Hilda and father, I suppose,” said Alice 
reprovingly, but the kind words failed to bring the 
usual smile to the elder sister’s face. Just then the 
father came in and they sat down at once to the table, 
where a dish of smoking stew and a warm corn -cake 
offered material satisfaction. 

“What’s the matter? isn’t it good?” asked Alice 
anxiously, as she saw Hilda drop her fork with a little 
start. 

“ Too much pepper,” answered her sister sharply. 

Alice’s lip trembled, and Rob saw that. 

“ It could n’t be beaten,” he said bluntly, “ not by 
Hilda herself. I ’ll take some more, father, if you 
please; and this corn-cake is delicious.” 

“ Everything is very nice,” said Mr. Duncan. “ How 
do you like this tea, Hilda?” 

“Well enough, for us,” was the short reply. In 
her present mood the last two words would hang them- 
selves on in spite of her, but as soon as they were 
spoken she was ashamed of her pet, and laughed out, 
“ I ’m pretty near cross, I admit ; but I sha’ n’t bite 
anybody, and I hope your nice supper will drive it 
out, Alice.” 


DAILY TEMPTATIONS. 


23 


So the meal passed off pleasantly after all, though 
Bessie brought an unfortunate ending. She had quite 
a story to tell of “such a funny thing” that happened 
at school, how a little dog went up on the teacher’s 
desk and barked with all his might while the teacher 
was doing a sum on the blackboard ; and under cover 
of the smile that met her story, she ventured to say as 
they rose from table, that Kit Jones set the same lit- 
tle dog on her at recess and tripped her up, and she 
tore her dress just a “ mite.” 

“ Mite ! I should think it was,” said Hilda shortly, 
on seeing the three-cornered jagged rent. “ There ’s 
an evening’s work at least. Go sit down and keep 
quiet until Alice and I ‘have washed the dishes, and 
then take your dress off and give it to me, and go 
straight to bed.” 

“ Hilda is most cross,” whispered the child to 
Alice. 

“ Do n’t cry,” replied her sister in the same tone. 
“ I ’m so tired I ’ll go to bed with you, and I ’ll tell you 
a story.” 

“ About the red shoes, and how they trotted off into 
the country ?” asked Bessie. 

“ Yes,” promised the sister. 

So, as soon as the evening’s work was done, Hilda 
and Alice sat down with the others, and Mr. Duncan 
drew the old family Bible towards him and read the 
day’s portion from the loving words of the gospel of 


24 


FATHER'S HOUSE. 


John, and then as they knelt he commended them all 
to the same care that had blessed their day, and sought 
a Father’s forgiveness. 

“ You will never give up the family altar, Wesley !” 
the one he loved so well had said before she went away ; 
and in fulfilling the promise then given he seemed to 
feel her presence nearer than at any other time. His 
children knew these were precious moments to him, 
though unconscious of the presence that seemed to him 
so near. To-night he lingered a moment after they 
rose, with his hand on the Bible. “ I ’m glad,” he said, 
“ that if I never have a home here to call my own, and 
it is n’t likely now I ever shall, much as I ’d like it, that 
there ’s a home promised over there, where I shall be 
satisfied. I ’m glad for these promises.” 

It was a new thing for this silent, reserved man to 
give so much of his real thought to his children. It 
awed them as such rare expressions only can, and 
Hilda sat down to the mending of the forlorn dress 
very quietly. 

“ You do look tired,” she was gracious enough to 
remark, as Alice said, “ Good-night.” 

“ I am,” was the reply ; “ the wash was so large to- 
day, and I mopped the kitchen up only just in time to 
get supper. Are you going to those lectures, Hilda, 
do you think ?” she asked, a little hesitatingly. 

“ I do n’t know ; I presume so, if I do n’t want my 
money more for something else.” 


DAILY TEMPTATIONS . 


25 


Alice sighed a little as she closed the door. She 
loved lectures and books as well as any one. 

“ There ’s a free temperance lecture at the Hall,” 
said Mr. Duncan soon after. “ I think I ’ll go down 
for a while; I don’t feel quite as tired as usual to- 
night, and I have n’t heard any thing of the kind in a 
good while. Do you want to go, Rob ?” 

“No, father, I ’d rather read this book ; it must go 
back to-morrow.” 

“ Go, father ; it will do you good,” said Hilda cor- 
dially. 

Lest you think too badly of our Hilda, you must 
know that she was not often cross or ungracious, but 
to-night she had planned to make up a ruffle and tie 
like one she had seen in at Meeker’s, and Bessie’s mis- 
hap had provoked her. Now that she was getting 
rested, and the good supper was settling the tired 
nerves, she was returning to her usual mood. 

“ How much do you think I earned this last week?” 
she asked, after she and Rob had sat silent for half an 
hour. 

“ I do n’t know ; six or seven dollars, I suppose.” 

“ Ten dollars,” replied his sister. 

“ Whew !” whistled the boy ; “ and I can’t get but 
just half that ; and I ’m such an enormous eater, and 
my clothes will wear out so, I use every cent of that 
pretty much on myself. I say, Hilda, what are you 
going to do with it ?” 


Father’s House. 


4 


26 


FATHER'S HOUSE. 


“ Use it on myself, probably, like you,” answered 
Hilda good-naturedly. 

“ I know what I ’d do,” continued the boy, not stop- 
ping to smile. 

“What?” 

“ Build father a house.” 

“You ’re crazy,” remarked his sister, jerking her 
thread off and tossing aside the mended garment. 

“ Not very ; or it would be a good kind of crazi- 
ness if I could only carry it out. Oh, how he does 
want one ! He told me once that he believed if he 
could only live in a home of his own it would add ten 
years to his life and take the pain out of his chest. 
And it could be done, too. Do n’t you remember, 
Hilda, what mother used to say so often when she used 
to let us help her ? ‘ It ’s the littles make the mickle.’ 

Just wait, and we’ll see.” 

“ How long?” asked his sister. 

“Till I make a little more than I do at present, 
though I ’m going to save every cent I can now. I 
was going to have a new pair of boots, but I went to- 
day to see about them, and the cobbler said he could 
patch mine and make ’em good for two months yet ; so 
there ’s one dollar for a nest-egg.” 

Hilda sat quietly thinking, not of the new house “ in 
the air,” I am sorry to say, but of that blue silk, and 
wondering how long she would have to save to get it, 
and what she should trim it with. 


DAILY TEMPTATIONS. 


2 7 


Rob startled her by asking, “Well, what do you 
think of it, and will you help ?” 

“ Think of what? of your house? That you ’ll be 
gray before you get into it,” was the reply. 

“ I would n’t feel so old just yet, Hilda, when we ’re 
neither of us twenty,” spoke up Rob pretty sharply. 
“ If you were willing to help, it would n’t take so very 
long ; but if you ’re not, why, I ’ll do it myself, that ’s 
all, if I live.” 

“ Well, how long should you say it would take ?” 
inquired Hilda, with a little more interest in her 
tone. 

“ Why, if you and I together could lay up, say five 
dollars a week, that would be two hundred and sixty 
dollars a year ; and I think we could be contented in a 
house that cost less than a thousand ; so there ’s only 
three or four years.” 

“ But we could n’t do that all the time, Rob.” 

“ Could do it this week, and mother used to say 
’t was time enough to fight the lions when we met them 
in the path.” 

“ But I want some things for myself,” returned 
Hilda. 

“ Oh, well,” answered the boy, “ if you want to 
spend all your money on gewgaws, I ’ve nothing to 
say; only what’ll you have to show for it by that 
time ? And I never supposed you were that kind of 
girl before;” and with this parting shot the boy re- 


28 


FATHER'S HOUSE . 


treated into his own room just as the clock finished 
striking nine. 

“ Come back, Rob,” called Hilda ; “ I will think of 
it, and perhaps by-and-by I ’ll see about it.” 

Rob muttered a “ Humph” to this qualified assent, 
and Hilda rose. “ I must fold those clothes for Alice,” 
she said ; “ she forgot them.” 

“ It ’s too hard work for Alice to wash,” said Rob. 
“ She gets dreadfully tired all the time, and she ’s not 
one to complain, either. I wish I had three dollars. 
I ’d give ’em to her for the lectures ; she ’s just hungry 
for them.” 

“ Is there anything that is n’t wanted?” asked Hilda 
sharply again, emphasizing her remark by spilling half 
the contents of her water dipper on Bessie’s School 
apron. 

“Why, yes,” replied Rob, stretching himself, “I 
don n’t want the smallpox, that I know of, nor a banjo, 
nor several other small things too numerous to men- 
tion. But I do want a bed, if you please, so here 
goes, and pleasant dreams to you;” and Hilda was 
left to finish her task in peace. 

“ I know Alice gets tired,” she said to herself; “but 
so do I, for that matter, and it can’t be helped, so far 
as I see. I do my full share in the family, and there 
aren’t many that do as much; and then if I want 
to use my extra money for myself, I do n’t see whose 
business it is.” Then she sprinkled and folded awhile 


DAIL V TEMP TA TIONS. 


29 


in silence, but evidently there was some disturbance 
within, for presently she drew up her shoulders with 
a jerk exclaiming, “I do wish Kate Marsh would let 
me and my dress alone ; she ’s picking at me all the time, 
and I ’m not sure but she ’s making a fool of me too. 
Anyway, I know she isn’t one mother would have 
wished me to go with and, the task being finished, 
she set the basket away in the pantry, and turned to 
close the kitchen window for the night. But there 
the beauty outside detained her, and she dropped into 
a low rocker and resting her head on her hand gazed 
long and thoughtfully, until the quiet and the beauty 
stole into her heart with its benison of peace. 

The moon was riding high above through light fleecy 
clouds, just enough to give a play of light and shadow 
over the quiet houses, the still green gardens, and the 
silent water. In full view were the beautiful house 
and grounds of Judge Harris. There were not many 
lights visible there, but from one corner room that 
she knew was Connie’s, a steady ray from a lamp shone 
out, and Hilda wondered what this other girl, whom 
she so much admired from afar, was doing there. 
“ Sitting back, perhaps, in an easy chair, not tired out 
with the long day of standing in a mill, but reading 
‘The Lady of the Lake,’ perhaps, or ‘The Princess,’ 
or even something in French or German. Oh, it’s 
so hard, so hard, to have nothing when one wants 
so much and over all the fair evening a cloud swept, 


30 


FATHER'S HOUSE . 


darker than any outside, whose rise was all under this 
young girl’s eyelids. 

Just then there was a light tap, followed by the 
quick opening of the outer door, and the pleasant face 
of the woman Hilda had walked home with that night 
appeared. 

“Why, Lissa,” she exclaimed, “how do you hap- 
pen to come in so late?” 

“ I was not keen enough to remember all my calls 
for breakfast when I was out before, so I must attend 
to it now,” answered Lissa,. laying a parcel on the 
table and drawing another chair to the window, “ and 
as I was passing I thought to look up and saw you 
here alone — the lamp ’s behind you, you ken — and I 
said, ‘ The lass is thinking hard, and maybe there ’s a 
word for me to put in; leastways I ’ll go and see.’ ” 

She had not seemed to notice the arrested face, 
nor the quick brushing of the hand across the eyes. 

“ Happen you ’ll tell me what you see out yon ?” 
she asked. 

“ A very pleasant evening,” replied Hilda, with a 
faint smile. 

“Let us thank the good Lord for that,” returned 
the other devoutly; “happen there be those whose 
eyes be that racked with pain and trouble to-night 
they see no shining of the light above, and others 
there be who hate it because it be purer than their 
own foul hearts. You’re kept from both, lass.” 


DA I L Y TEMP TA TIONS. 


3i 


“I don’t seem to be kept much from anything, 
Lissa,” returned the girl; “I just drift along. I get 
more restless every day, and discontented and every- 
thing bad. Why, I am actually growing cross to the 
children, and I ’m envious as can be. I ’ve just been 
sitting here looking up to Constance Harris’ window 
and wondering what she was doing, and wishing I 
was in her place. There’s no use talking, Lissa; I’m 
just getting dreadful.” 

“And what did you fancy Miss Constance was 
doing?” asked Lizza. 

“Oh something restful and improving: reading 
or studying, as I should like to,” replied Hilda. 

“More like she’s busy at some kind act for some- 
body. Her hands always belong to everybody else 
first, though that ’s not saying she ’s not used to im- 
proving her mind,” answered the woman ; “ happen 
you do that yourself, I suppose?” with a quick look at 
the girl. Lissa could not forget the bit of silk ; indeed 
that was what brought her in to-night. She had seen so 
many of these bright young girls ruined by their fond- 
ness for dress and show ; using up their wages faster 
than earned; spending freely on everything; out on 
the streets until late at night to show their fine things ; 
loud talking, coarse; in a few years to be found in 
some poor, ill-managed home, faded, worn out, scold- 
ing wives and mothers. She had never feared much 
for Hilda’s strong common sense and modest nature; 


32 


FATHERS HOUSE. 


but of late she had seen her with Kate Marsh several 
times, and did not like her company. She began to 
think it was time for a word of caution. 

“I’d like to know where I can get the time,” was 
Hilda’s reply to that last remark. “ I’ve enough to 
do now to drive me wild.” 

“Happen it’s like saving the pence to make the 
pound,” said Lissa; '‘it’s saving the minutes that will 
shorten the pages of the longest book, I’m thinking, 
and make it fast in the head too. Or it may happen, 
lass, that some of the things you think so urgent to do 
may not be of the Master’s command at all, but only 
your own roaming desires.” 

“Well, I’m tired enough, at all events, Saturday 
night I just finished fixing my brown alpaca. I made 
it all over with blue, and it ’s lovely now, but I ’ve been 
more’ than two weeks about it. Some nights I sat up 
until one o’clock. I ’m thankful it’s finished.” 

“ But I thought that was new only a year ago, and 
I ’m sure it was made very pretty then. What ’s the 
use of making it again?” asked Lissa. 

“ Oh, Kate said ’twas dreadfully out of fashion, and 
I saw Margie Trask out at church with one made up 
with green ; and so I ’ve got mine as pretty as hers, 
for once.” 

“But that wont make you Margie Trask, will it?” 
asked Lissa gravely. 

“ Of course not.” 


DAILY TEMPTATIONS. 


33 


“And you’ll be Hilda Duncan just the same, if you 
get clothes exactly like hers, wont you?” 

“Why, of course; what do you mean?” 

“And you’ll be a mill-girl all the same?” 

“ Certainly.” 

“ Do you suppose Margie Trask or my Miss Connie 
will like you any the better for having a dr^ss like 
theirs ? Do they know anything about all your workr?” 

“Why, no.” 

“Who does?” 

“Kate Marsh and some of the other girls,” came 
with a great effort from Hilda’s lips at last. 

“ Do you want to be like those ?” asked the woman. 

“ No, I do n’t ; all they care for is the outside ; but 
does n’t every one care for a well-dressed woman more 
than a dowdy ?” 

“Yes; there’s your rock, is it?” asked Lissa. 

“And Mr. Sibley was saying only to-day that the 
way into good society was through good dress.” 

“ And he ought to know, sure,” said the woman a 
little quickly; “he’s at more pains on that point than 
any other. But, Hilda Duncan, the thing strikes me 
like to this : if I were you, I ’d be just such a Hilda as 
your mother might have been proud of, and not just a 
faint tintype of Margie Trask or anybody else. The 
Lord made you an individual person, and he expects 
you to make that one a vessel of honor ; and, depend 
on it, you wont do that as long as you’re trying to 
S 


Father’s House. 


34 


FATHER'S HOUSE . 


mould yourself over into every shape that pleases you 
better than your own. You ’ll end by finding that you 
don’t fit anywhere. Now tell me true,” she added, 
suddenly turning her keen eyes on the young girl, 
“ a’ n’t you just setting your heart on that piece of blue 
silk I saw in your hand to-night ?” 

“ Why — why,” answered Hilda, quite confused, “ I 
was thinking a little about it ; but that ’s nothing.” 

“ Well, the good book, you know, says,” and Lissa’s 
tone was very gentle now, “ ‘ Let him first count the cost.’ 
Suppose we estimate the whole, just to see, you know.” 

“Well,” answered Hilda, very glad to take this 
view of the case. 

“Yes. Then first there’s the silk, of course; how 
much will it take, do you think ?” 

“ Kate had twenty-five yards ; I suppose I should 
want about the same.” 

“ How much is the stuff?” 

“ Two dollars a yard.” 

“There’s fifty then, to begin with. Now the trim- 
mings — say ten more ; and the making ?” 

“ About ten.” 

“ Seventy then. Then there ’s the black cashmere 
suit you had last winter ; the stuffed sack wont do to go 
with this, of course ; so there ’s the opening for a cloak 
or shawl, say twenty more ; that ’s ninety.” 

“ I can give that suit to Alice,” said the girl in a low 


tone. 


DA I L Y TEMP TA TIO NS. 


35 


“ Happen it is n’t always pleasant of a Sunday, you 
must have the other for yourself still. Then a new hat, 
because your green of last winter would n’t go well 
with the new frock; nor your green gloves; say ten 
more, and there ’s a hundred round. How much can 
you save a week ?” 

“ I think five or six dollars,” was the hesitating reply. 

, “ Happen six, and that would be more than you 
could do; that’s seventeen weeks, say, of work and 
wait, for the money. But it will cost you more than 
that, depend on it.” 

“ But it wont,” returned Hilda, impatiently ; “ I wont 
let it.” 

“ But it will,” replied the woman quietly. “ Now 
we ’ll finish the bill. There ’s the sister ; you promised 
her a suit, and you know she has nothing warm enough 
to wear out as soon as these mild days cease. There ’s 
five months of waiting on her part ; but she ’s patient, 
dear lass. Put that down first. Then I heard you say 
the father should surely have the great coat he needed, 
as a Christmas from you. Just put over his gift till the 
spring this year ; perchance the pain in his chest spares 
him till then. Put that down too. Then there’s the 
little daily comforts and the gifts one loves to bring in 
at nightfall to brighten the home evening. Write that 
third. And the sister Alice is over young and delicate 
for her many steps. A few shillings would hire the 
wash and heavy things lifted off her, and keep the bent 


36 


FATHER'S HOUSE. 


back from breaking. Put that over till the spring too, 
please God he spare her so long. Then the ill will of 
the girls and their envy ; that belongs to the list on that 
side also. Now let’s draw the balance. Who ’ll go to 
church with you and it? Your father nor brother will 
be fine enough, so we wont put in their pleasure. 
Who’ll care any the more for you? Not Connie 
Harris or Margie Trask, for that’s not their way of 
looking at things. I never hear them judging by 
what ’s on the outside of persons, but always what the 
real thing is ; and they ’re wonderful sharp, too, to 
detect it, be it for good or evil. Now, Hilda Duncan,” 
continued the good woman, “ I did n’t mean to hurt 
you, only for your good; but you see just how it 
stands : fine feathers do n’t make fine birds, any more 
than a fine dress makes such a woman as your mother 
hoped and God meant you to be. And so I ’ll say 
good-night and let you think it out. Only be sure 
you ’re in the way of a prayer over it.” And following 
out the last part of this advice herself, the good woman 
took up her package and left the weeping girl to her 
own reflections. 

For many minutes the moon looked down upon 
the young head bowed upon the window-sill, and then 
it saw a lifted face and a clear eye as a smile of satis- 
faction rested on the young girl’s lips. 

“ What a goose I ’ve been and am ! I’m ashamed 
of the girl I ’m getting to be. But with God’s help,” 


DAILY TEMPTATIONS. 


37 


and the eye was rested in reverent seriousness now, 
“ I ’ll be different from this time. I ’ll be a real woman 
just here, and just as I am placed ; and if anybody cares 
for me, it shall be the me , and not my dress. So help 
me, dear Master.” For though we have not said this 
before, Hilda was seeking to be a child of the divine 
Lord and had borne his name for many months now. 
To-night he drew near as she sought his presence and 
strength, and she felt his blessing of peace. 

As she was still waiting in this chamber of rest her 
father came in. 

“ Up yet, Hilda? You should not have waited for 
me; it is some time after ten; but we had a good 
meeting.” 

“ I have not been alone,” replied Hilda, as she rose 
to close the window. 

“ Have not ! Who has been here?” 

“Lissa was in for a little while,” replied Hilda, but 
she did not speak of the nearer Friend who had been a 
conqueror in her heart. 

“Are you very tired, father?” she asked as she 
heard him sigh a little wearily. 

“ Not much to-night, to speak of. I have not been 
so well in a long time as I have been the few months 
past. If I keep on so I ’ll soon get all the debts paid 
up, and then I think I can take care of the house, Rob 
and I, and let you have all you earn for yourself. I 
hope so.” 


33 


FATHER’S HOUSE. 


“ I do n’t want it, father ; indeed I shall not take it ; 
so do n’t say a word more.” 

“ You ’re a good girl, Hilda, and always have been 
ever since she went away ; I do n’t know what I could 
have done without you and the father laid his hand 
gently on her shoulder as he passed, a caress very 
welcome and that brought the mists back to her eyes 
as she said Good-night at her own door. 


THE BEGINNING OF THE END. 


39 


CHAPTER III. 

THE BEGINNING OF THE END. 

The factory bells were sounding their six o’clock 
call the next morning. The streets of the little town 
were filled with workers, hurrying to their task as 
though it were a call of pleasure. Hilda, in her neat 
plain dress, was among them, and formed a decided 
contrast to some of the untidy girls about her. 

“ How ’s your mother, Peggy ?” asked Hilda, of a 
girl just coming from a side street. 

“She’s very low indeed. I was almost feared to 
leave her alone with the children. She can’t last but a 
few days, the doctor says.” 

“ You ought to stay with her, Peggy ; it’s too bad.” 

“ I ’d be afraid of losing my place,” was the answer. 

“ Mr. Trask will keep it for you ; I ’ll ask him. 
Nell Parly is home now and would come in for a few 
days, I know.” 

But Peggy still shook her head. 

A sudden thought struck Hilda. 

“ Girls,” she called to a party of four or five from 
their own mill who were just in front of them. The 
girls were chatting and laughing rudely and noisily, 


40 


FATHER'S HOUSE. 


but at the call they turned. One could see that they 
were coarse and uncultured and careless, but Hilda did 
not hesitate. 

“ Girls,” she said, “here’s Peggy Morrissy; her 
mother’s dying with consumption, and she’s left all 
alone with the two little children. I tell Peggy to go 
home ; Nell Parly will take her place for a few days ; 
but she thinks she can’t.” 

“ It ’s the wages,” cried one of the group ; “ they 
need that bad.” 

“We’ll make that up to her then,” said another, 
the boldest and noisiest of all ; “I ’ll give you one day, 
Peggy ; so make your mind easy and go home.” 

“ I ’ll give another,” said Hilda. 

“ And I,” “and I,” “ and I,” exclaimed three others. 

Peggy burst into tears. “I’m sure you’re good, 
and mother’s heart will die easy at last. ‘ Peggy,’ she 
said this morn, ‘ you ’ve been a good girl and I ’d love 
to die with my eyes on you ; but if I do n’t I ’ll keep 
your last look in my heart till it’s cold and still.’ And 
so thanks to you all.” And turning, Peggy ran back 
to the dying mother, and the girls went on laughing 
and noisy as before. 

At the great doors Hilda turned aside, for she saw 
her employer in the office and she wanted to tell him 
about Peggy. Mr. Trask was standing at his desk as 
Hilda entered. He was one of those admirable men 
who have the faculty of being just “ the man for the 


THE BEGINNING OF THE END. 


4i 


place,” wherever that place may be. Mr. Hart, the 
senior partner, “the three Ps,” portly, pompous, and 
proud, as the hands called him, only spent a few months 
of each year in the country, and to him all the busy, 
thinking, feeling, human beings who worked to fill his 
coffers were simply “hands,” with no possible personal 
relations to himself or his family. 

Mr. Trask, on the contrary, was the friend of each ; 
knew the history of nearly all and was heartily inter- 
ested in it. A man of medium height, with pleasant 
black eyes that could twinkle merrily in fun, and in 
which the ready tear gathered for the trouble of others, 
a head bald on the top, as those of benevolent men are 
apt to be, always in a neat business suit, with carefully 
brushed beaver hat ; his were a presence and a name 
welcome among rich or poor, sad or light-hearted. 
Now, as Hilda came to his side, he turned from his 
desk with a pleasant smile. 

“Good morning, Miss Duncan. I was wishing to 
see you this morning. Will you please take a chair a 
moment and rest while I make out this bill ? then I will 
speak with you.” 

Hilda accepted the seat as gracefully as it was 
offered, and watched the long procession of workers 
hurrying to their places, until Mr. Trask finished and 
took a seat near. 

Then she preferred her request for Peggy, which 
was readily granted. 


Father’s House. 


6 


42 


FA THER'S HOUSE. 


“I will send out at once for Nell Parly,” he said, 
“and Mrs. Trask or I will go to see the poor woman 
some time during the day. I am very glad you told 
me about her. Are they suffering, do you think ?” 

“ Not for necessaries, perhaps, sir, but I think they 
have no comforts. Peggy is the support of the family, 
for nobody knows where the husband has gone, and 
her little step-sisters are almost too small to take care 
of themselves.” 

“ I know, I know ; I ought to have thought of 
them sooner. But, you see, I did not know the poor 
woman was so low. I ’m glad you told me, again. 
Now I wanted to say a word to you about these lec- 
tures. You see, Miss Duncan, we’re very anxious to 
make these a success, for the factory people especially, 
I mean. They ’ll be a treat for all ; I am anticipating 
much pleasure and profit from them myself; but the 
truth is, so few of our girls or boys care for anything 
improving. I want to tell you just what we propose to 
have, and then you can use your influence to induce 
others to come. You see I understand that you care 
for these things a little differently from the others.” 

We are glad to say that just here Hilda blushed 
over her thoughts of yesterday. 

“We design,” continued Mr. Trask, “to call these 
‘ Lectures on Common Subjects.’ There ’ll be one with 
experiments about the water we drink, the air we 
breathe, and so forth. One on Good Cooking, and 


THE BEGINNING OF THE END. 


43 


there ’ll be meats and vegetables cooked right there, to 
teach better ways to some of these poor housekeepers. 
One about Bread, one on Health, another on Dress, 
and so on. They will be very entertaining, I think, 
and I do wish we could get as many in as would run 
for the first minstrel show that came to town. But I 
don’t suppose we can, do you?” 

“ I am afraid not, sir.” 

“No, I am afraid not too. How is your father now, 
Miss Duncan ?” 

“Better than usual, sir.” 

“Glad to hear it, very. I want you to take him a 
ticket for the course from me. I was under obligations 
to him years ago, at the time we nearly had the riot 
here, you know, and I do n’t forget it. Wait a minute, 
please, while I sign it.” 

As he turned again to his desk a shadow came 
through the eastern opening door, and a boy-form 
followed to the threshold. Hilda knew it well. Every- 
body in Valley Falls knew Willie Trask. Years 
younger than any other of the household he was the 
idol of the home circle, the pet of all. Would you 
catch his picture as he stands for a moment in the glare 
of the morning sun and framed in by the dingy door- 
frame? A sturdy straight-limbed boy of nine years, 
with frank open face and sunny eyes of blue, and closely 
shorn head not many shades darker than the cheeks 
the wind and sun had freely kissed. For a moment 


44 


FATHER'S HOUSE. 


only he halted ; then, lifting his cap with boyish grace, 
bounded in. 

“Good morning, Miss Duncan; good morning, 
papa, I ’ve come to walk home with you. You said I 
would n’t wake, but I made Margie promise to wake 
me, and she did, just as your hat was going out of 
sight, and here I am.” 

“So I see, my son, and here too,” said Mr. Trask, 
bending to . kiss the upturned face that looked fresh 
enough to have been washed in dew. “ Glad to see 
you keep your promises. Here, Miss Duncan, that is 
all.” And Hilda hastened to her place. 

The great floors are already shaking and throbbing, 
the fresh morning breeze lifts into the sunlight the 
ever-present fluffs of cotton, and the workers, in such 
mood as the morning has found them, are busy at 
their tasks. 

“Did you go to the minstrels’ last night?” called 
out one whose place was near Hilda’s. 

“No, I went to the temperance meeting.” 

“Jule always goes where she pays the least,” said a 
third. “What are you so saving for, Jule?” 

“ Oh, they ’ve bought a house, do n’t you know, 
she and Joanna. We’re going to live in a house of 
our own, do n’t you think, and be quality in time.” 
This from the pale-faced Anna Morrison. 

“Is that true, Julia? Are you buying a house?” 
asked Hilda in a moment snatched from her work. 


THE BEGINNING OF THE END. 


45 


“ Trying to,” answered the girl. 

‘‘How long will it take ?” 

“Two years certainly, and it is n’t much of a house 
then ; but it ’ll be grand if we can own it, and not have to 
move every spring. I ’m tired of that. We’ve moved 
a dozen times in my life, and I ’m not twenty yet.” 

Again it was noon-time; the great wheel was 
quiet and the four workers were left in the weaving-room. 

Hilda gathered up her spirit for the encounter with 
Kate that she knew must come. She had not long to 
wait. Anna Morrison brought it on. 

“ Are you going to the lectures, girls ?” she asked. 
“ I met Mr. Trask this morning and he said he hoped 
I ’d come.” 

“ He ’ll miss you, probably, if you do n’t,” said 
Kate. “I’m not going, regularly anyway. I can get 
in on single tickets by-and-by, if I want to.” 

“When you have something new to wear, you 
mean,” remarked Anna. 

Kate did not notice, but turned to Hilda. “ Have 
you thought any more about that yet ?” she asked. 

“ The dress do you mean ?” answered Hilda. “ Yes, 
I have.” 

“How did you like the sample when you got 
home?” continued Kate, giving Anna who was all 
attention now, a look that said plainly she wished she 
was out of the way. 

“Very much,” replied Hilda. 


46 


FA THEN'S HOUSE . 


“And have you decided to get it?” asked Kate 
eagerly. 

“No.” ' 

“ When will you ?” 

“ Not at all.” 

“Why, you don’t mean that, Hilda Duncan!” 

“Yes, Ido.” 

“It’s a great bargain.” 

“That may be.” 

“Why don’t you have it then?” 

“ I ’ve no money to buy it.” 

“But you can get trusted. I went back to the 
store last night and asked the clerk how much there 
was, and there was just twenty -three yards; and I 
asked him if he would trust you for it. He wanted 
to know who it was, and then said, ‘ Very gladly,’ and 
he would reserve it for you until to-night.” 

“ He may put it out then at once,” said Hilda, who 
had great difficulty in restraining her anger at Kate’s 
officiousness. 

“You don’t really mean you wont take it anyway?” 

“I do, indeed,” was the reply. 

“But why?” persisted Kate, beginning to show 
anger herself. That quieted Hilda at once and she 
answered gently, 

“ Because, Kate, I ’ve concluded I ’ve no need for a 
silk dress, and I do need a great many other things. I 
should have nowhere to wear such a beautiful thing 


THE BEGINNING OF THE END. 


47 


after I got it, for there are more proper things for 
church, as well as for that crowded dusty hall in the 
evening. The fact is, Kate,” concluded Hilda, trying 
to turn it off with a laugh, “ I ’ve made up my mind 
I was n’t intended for one of the silk-folks of the world, 
and I ’m not going to cry over it.” 

“That’s just nonsense,” returned Kate angrily; 
“we’ve just as good a right to fine things as anybody, 
and that’s just the reason we get looked down on and 
put upon, because we do n’t make as great a show as 
others. We’re all free and equal in this country, 
thank fortune, and I ’d like to know if everybody is n’t 
made just alike? Tell me that.” 

“Why yes, but they needn’t all dress just alike,” 
replied Hilda, laughing. 

“Fiddlesticks! I wouldn’t give up that dress if I 
was you.” 

“And I couldn’t be hired to get it now, Kate. 
Just the bother of thinking about it pretty nearly took 
the flesh off my bones.” 

“What are you going to do with your money 
then?” asked Kate, who had a natural fondness for 
“managing” for others. 

“There’s a thought just creeping into my head; I 
am going to wait and see what it will grow to,” replied 
Hilda; but Kate had evidently lost all interest in the 
matter, for with a toss of her curl she rose and left 
that corner. 


48 


FATHER'S HOUSE. 


“ I ’m very glad, Hilda,” said Anna, “that you gave 
her such a hit for once.” 

“ I did not mean to give her any hit,” replied 
Hilda, “ I was only speaking for myself.” 

“ And you ’re in the right of it too,” remarked the 
woman near, rousing out of her usual quiet manner 
and speaking quickly. “ She thinks a sight too much 
of dress. It ’ll be the ruin of her yet, as it has been 
of many before her.” 

“O Naomi, don’t say so,” said Hilda. “Kate’s 
good-hearted enough, if she does like silks and velvet 
pretty well.” 

“Yes, but when the passion for dress gets hold of 
one, I tell you it don’t leave room for anything good 
to hold by. It ’t just like the boa-constrictor I ’ve read 
of that will devour everything in its way. I know all 
about it ; I ’ve seen it, and I ’m glad, Hilda Duncan, 
your good sense is going to save you at last,” and the 
woman walked off to oil her looms. 

The girls exchanged glances. “Isn’t she queer?” 
whispered Anna. 

These words were more than any one had ever 
heard Naomi Hurd speak at once since she came 
among them, nearly two years ago, and took her 
place in the mill. Reticent, neither giving nor asking 
help or companionship, she went her own way. At 
first the girls had tried by banter or questions to draw 
her out, but they might as well have struck a rock. 


THE BEGINNING OF THE END. 


49 


She was never angry, never pleased, and at last they 
left her alone. She lived by herself at the edge of the 
village in an attic room, to which no one was ever 
invited. Of late she had taken her lunch to the river 
corner with the three girls, but this was the first time 
she had ever seemed to give heed to what was said, 
and Hilda rejoiced, in hopes that the heart within was 
waking up a little ; for deep in this young girl’s soul 
there was the germ of the true missionary spirit, that 
delights in seeing the good springing up in others. 

That night Hilda stopped on . her way home and 
purchased two tickets for the lectures ; then again she 
went a little out of her way to call on Biddy Flaherty. 
“Are you full of washing as you can be, Biddy?” she 
asked. 

“No, miss; Mrs. Carr ist well again, so I’m free of 
a Monday.” 

“Will you help me then a half-day every week?” 

“That I will, and glad of the job.” 

The arrangements were soon made and Hilda has- 
tened home. 

The room looked very much as it did the night 
before ; the family were all in, and Alice with a very 
flushed face was taking down the ironing board from 
two chairs, while the long lines of clothes against the 
wall testified to the tedious day. 

“How tired you look, Alice,” said Rob as they 
sat down to the table. 


Father’s House. 


7 


50 


FATHER'S HOUSE. 


“ Alice is not to do the washing alone another week,” 
remarked Hilda as she poured out the tea, “ I ’ve 
engaged Biddy Flaherty to come Monday morning.” 

The relieved, gratified look that Alice lifted to her 
sister’s face was thanks enough, but every one else 
seemed to feel a share in the pleasure and it was a 
very lively meal. 

After the usual family devotions, as Alice was 
going to her room for the night, Hilda brought out 
her second gift. 

“ Father, Mr. Trask sent you a ticket for the course 
of lectures; here it is.” 

“ Indeed ! I am very thankful ; I was wishing for 
one. But you must all share with me.” 

“ I have one for myself, father,, and one for Alice,” 
passing it over, “and we’il all lend to you, Rob, in 
turn, so you may fare the best after all.” 

“I feel like standing on my head,” replied that 
youth, “if I wasn’t afraid that my heels would strike 
the ceiling.” 

“Seeing your head comes so near to it,” retorted 
Hilda mischievously, who knew Rob’s sensitiveness 
about his “short length,” as he said. 

“It’ll be as good as a dozen new books,” whispered 
Alice. “ It was so good of you, Hilda.” 

“ Pshaw ! you ’ve earned it every bit.” 

The father went off early, and again the brother 
and sister had the room to themselves. 


THE BEGINNING OF THE END. 


5i 


“Rob,” said Hilda, “I’ve been thinking of what 
you said last night, and I believe it could be done.” 

“What did I say?” 

“ About getting a home for father, you know.” 

“No! Really, Hilda? My coat is just ready to 
burst. I can’t hold in.” 

“Well, you must. Do be quiet now and hear me. 
I think if we all stay well, I can save five dollars a 
week, and you must manage to save some.” 

“ I will ; I ’ll go without butter all the days of my 
life, and wear a coat as patched as the ragman’s, and 
sit up nights to save bedding.” 

“Don’t be a goose; and don’t tell any one either; 
that’s all.” 

“Honor bright; only let’s tell Alice; she’s a jewel 
at holding her tongue.” 

“ Of course Alice, and Lissa too ; she ’s worth heaps 
to advise.” 

“Well; only if these women know it, there’s no 
telling where it ’ll end.” 

“You are learning to be saucy, Rob, and it does n’t 
sit well on you.” 

“Never mind. What color, Hilda, would you 
rather the house should be ?” 

“ I should think pink, with blue blinds, and green 
lattice-work, and white doors,” and then the two went 
off in a laugh before they settled down into a serious 
planning and arranging, that not all the clock’s loud- 


52 


FATHER'S HOUSE. 


est ticking could disturb, and it finally had to give ten 
loud strokes to call them back to common life. 

“Do you hear that?” exclaimed Hilda, “as though 
we shouldn’t have time enough to think and plan 
before we get it. But I ’m glad we ’ve got the thought 
anyway; and so good-night to you, and pleasant 
dreams.” 

But as soon as her own head pressed her pillow, 
sleep seemed to have forsaken it. In vain she recited 
the multiplication table backward, and counted innu- 
merable sheep; the clock finished out the twenty-four 
hours of that day and her eyes were wide open as 
ever. 

In despair she rose and sat down by the open win- 
dow. There was the full moon overhead, the quiet sleep- 
ing world below. Her own cares and questions were 
small indeed beside this fulness of eternal work. And 
then, down on the moonbeams perhaps, as by some 
special messenger, dropped the thought into the young 
girl’s heart, “If God is so great and powerful and 
good, surely if it be his will, he can do this I desire 
for me; ‘for thine is the kingdom and the power.’ 
Dear Lord, I trust my thought and wish and desire to 
thee to carry it on, if it seem good in thy sight.” 

And then she went back to her pillow to find quiet 
rest and sleep awaiting her there. 


INTRO D UCTIONS. 


53 


CHAPTER IV. 

INTRODUCTIONS. 

It was a very pleasant breakfast table to which Mr. 
Trask and his little boy hastened that same morning. 
The long windows of the cheerful dining-room opened 
upon a green lawn bordered with the flowers of early 
autumn, as yet untouched by any frost. The family 
party were already seated around the table when they 
came in. 

“ Willie, ask Ellen to bring in the breakfast now,” 
said his mamma. “ Mr. Trask, we waited as long as 
we could, and then sat down, to .see if that would not 
bring you.” 

“ As it did,” answered the gentleman. “ We are 
late, I see, but so long as you have only been devour- 
ing the bare dishes, and have left the good things in 
the kitchen, we will try not to feel too badly; wont 
we, Willie?” 

“I supposed you were here when I rang the bell,” 
added his wife in explanation, “and then as we were 
all here we thought we might as well sit down.” 

“Especially, as we saw you just coming in sight,” 
added Margie, the young lady daughter. 

“ Ah, yes, yes, I see. All right. Mr. Agnew, will 


54 


FATHER'S HOUSE. 


you please ask the blessing?” and then all heads were 
bowed as the morning thanks were offered. 

“And so you call this late, do you, Mr. Trask?” 
asked a dainty little lady sitting beside Mr. Agnew at 
Mrs. Trask’s right hand; “if so may I be permitted to 
inquire your definition of early ?” 

“ Before the sun, Mrs. Agnew, when the birds are 
just trying their voices to see if they are in tune for the 
day, and the flowers are holding their drops of dew 
like diamond treasures close down in their hearts. 
Were you ever out, Mrs. Agnew, in the very early 
morning — at such a time as I speak of, I mean?” 

“I dislike to answer your question, Mr. Trask. I 
fear you will form an opinion of my habits from any 
reply I may make, and I have received so many cau- 
tions as to what a minister’s wife must and must not 
do and say, that I am growing wary. However, I 
believe I will venture to admit that I do not remember 
ever having been out of doors at the uncanny time you 
mention.” 

“No, I presume not; then I wish you would try it 
sometime. You will find it a new experience in your 
life, and one that you will live over many times, in 
memory, at least, if not in repetition of the act.” 

“I can well believe that,” remarked Mr. Agnew; 
“ you know I was in the war the first year until I re- 
ceived that disabling wound in my arm, and what you 
have just said reminds me of a little experience of my 


INTRO D UCTIONS. 


55 


own while we were camping out in Virginia. It was a 
lovely summer night, but sleep seemed to desert my 
pine pillow, and at last I got up, and after dressing walked 
out to what I supposed was the edge of the camp. But I 
had made a mistake and gone beyond the lines, and as 
I turned to come back, the sentinel on guard saw me. 
Spies were plenty in those days and orders strict, and 
I heard a challenge and found a musket in fair range 
for my heart and I had not the slightest idea of the 
countersign. ‘ Do n’t shoot !’ I cried ; ‘ I am one of 
your own men.’ ‘Give the word, then/ was all the 
answer, and what might have happened next I cannot 
tell, had not the sergeant of the night, a personal friend 
of mine, arrived at that instant and recognized and 
delivered me. For a little while, I assure you, the 
beauty of the night had been as a dream to me ; but as 
I passed into the lines and safety again, and found my- 
self in the sheltering solitude of a clump of bushes, I knelt 
on the ground and under the solemn stars there went 
up from my heart such devout thanksgiving as I had 
never known before, and in that still hour of nature 
the way up to God seemed very short and as a shi- 
ning ladder. I think I realized then, as never before 
what is meant by the ‘worship of nature.’ I mean the 
reverential love that it induces in the heart of one of 
its close students.” 

We may as well right here introduce Mr. and Mrs. 
Agnew as the new pastor and his bride. He had been 


56 


FATHER'S HOUSE. 


installed at Valley Falls several weeks previous to this, 
our morning meeting with him, but had brought his bride 
only the Saturday before to his “first parish,” and while 
waiting for the necessary changes in the parsonage to be 
completed, they had been the guests of Mr. and Mrs. 
Trask. This morning they were to commence their 
own housekeeping. Of course everybody is as anx- 
ious as the Valley Falls people to know all about 
the new minister and his wife, but characters are not 
made or learned in a day, outside of books, and we 
will let you find these out through their works and 
living. 

All had listened with deep interest to the simply- 
told story, but Mr. Trask was the first to speak. 

“Such experiences are revelations to us, sir, in 
many respects, and when one such comes to us, we 
wonder that we do n’t find time for more of the same 
sort. It is the greatest mystery to me sometimes at 
night, how it is that I have allowed myself to become so 
absorbed in the business and demands of the day, as 
to have had no thought even, for the wonderful world 
of nature about me, and no time to become acquainted 
with her phases. I wonder at myself, and regret it, 
and that is as far as I get, for I do just the same thing 
the next day, and shall, I suppose, to the end of the 
chapter.” 

“ No doubt,” said Mr. Agnew, “we walk with closed 
eyes when their unsealing would be for our own high- 


IN TROD UCTIONS. 


57 


est joy. I know that after a hard day of work among 
books or men, to get away by myself into some quiet 
nook, even if I find only grass blades there, is unspeak- 
able rest and refreshment.” 

“ And do you know,” said Margie Trask, “ that is 
one reason why I always feel so sorry for these mill 
girls. I love to get up and see them go along to their 
work in the morning ; they are so full of laugh and 
talk, and the trees bend over them in such green 
arches; but I always feel so sorry for them, they have 
such a little bit of the brightness, and then must be 
shut in those noisy rooms all day.” 

“But they have some time at evening?” asked Mrs. 
Agnew. 

“ Yes, but they are not the same at all then ; I do n’t 
care to watch them come home. Think of standing 
twelve hours at work every day ! They go home so 
tired looking, and when they laugh, there’s nothing 
merry in the sound.” 

“Perhaps they don’t really care much for other 
things, Miss Trask.” Again Mrs. Agnew was the 
speaker. 

“ Oh yes, they do. Why, see that flower-bed close 
by the fence there; I plant phlox and such things 
there on purpose for them to pick, and I have seen 
them snatch off a flower and then pet it and kiss it 
like a living thing.” 

“I never knew before,” said Mrs. Trask, laughing, 
8 


Father’s House. 


58 


FATHER'S HOUSE . 


“ why Margie persisted in having a flower-bed in that 
place every year, for it is as she says ; the girls gather 
the flowers as they pass, and it is never taxed for 
bouquets.” 

“All go singly,” said Mr. Agnew. 

“ I know nothing about factory people,” said Mrs. 
Agnew; “my home was not in a manufacturing town. 
Are there any of them in Mr. Agnew’s church ?” 

“We are all factory people here, Mrs. Agnew,” said 
Margie quickly; “in this house, I mean.” 

“Oh, Miss Trask, you know that is not what I 
mean ; I mean the workers.” 

“Duty to myself, Mrs. Agnew,” said Mr. Trask, 
“compels me to say that I think few of them work 
harder than I do. But I understand what you mean, 
and am sorry to say there are not as many as we could 
wish in the church, though there are some, and quite a 
number of children are in the Sunday-school. A few 
families attend regularly and have seats, and a good 
many of the girls come more or less, if they are not too 
tired or if they have something new to wear.” 

“That’s the main point, papa, I am afraid,” said 
Margie. 

“Of course. Could they belong to the female sex 
and it be otherwise ?” asked Mr. Agnew, breaking a 
second egg into his cup. 

“'A libel not worthy of an answer,” retorted his 
wife ; “that insinuation can hardly pass unchallenged.” 


INTRODUCTIONS. 


59 


“I disclaim all intention of discourtesy, my dear. 
As to the truth of my remark, I appeal to Mr. Trask 
as the only member of the company capable of impar- 
tial judgment on the subject.” 

“ Women are thoughtful on the subject of dress, I 
must admit, as the impartial judge aforesaid,” respond- 
ed Mr. Trask, with his lips behind his coffee-cup and 
his eyes twinkling merrily above it. 

“The oracle has spoken,” said Mr. Agnew. 

“Louis, can you tell me who it was,” asked his 
wife, “who requested me this morning to put on this 
blue wrapper instead of the brown, as being a little 
more to your taste ? Of course it is, since it is trimmed 
as much again, and with twice as expensive trimming.” 

There was a general laugh and much banter at Mr. 
Agnew’s expense, but he bore all good-naturedly. “ I 
see what the subject of my next sermon must be,” he 
said. 

“What?” 

“ ‘ That women adorn themselves in modest apparel, 
with shamefacedness and sobriety.’ ” 

“Oh, the enemies you will make among your new 
people,” cried Mrs. Trask. “No, take my advice and 
keep clear of that subject.” 

“But really, my dear lady, why? Either this 
matter of dress is or is not an important one, and our rules 
for it must come from the infallible guide. I believe I 
must look into it.” 


6o 


FA THER'S HOUSE. 


“Well, I must confess,” said Mrs. Agnew, as they 
rose from the table, “ that I do feel in better humor, and 
.1 know I am better behaved when I am well dressed. 
Though I do think we are not much better than slaves, 
as fashion leads us at present.” 

The family party passed into the sitting-room and 
sat down for morning prayers. 

“May we sing, ‘There’s a home over there,’ this 
morning?” asked Willie as he passed the books. 

“I am willing,” said his father. “Give Mr. Agnew 
the Bible this morning, my son. Will you please take 
the charge, sir, as you are to leave us so soon ?” 

“We will sing first then, Miss Trask, if you please,” 
said the minister; and Margie rose and went across 
the room to the piano, in the ready way she had for 
everything. “ So full of energy,” people said she was. 

In this part of the devotions Willie, from his little 
chair by his father’s side, joined heartily and musically. 
Then came the reading of the grand ninetieth Psalm, 
and in the prayer that followed from the young pastor’s 
lips you would have realized that it was no stranger 
who was asking, but a child, who knew well the way 
to the Father’s footstool. “ Help me to do every duty 
to this people as in thy sight,” was one petition which 
met a silent “Amen” in each heart there. 

“Now, my son, your verse for the day,” said Mr. 
Trask as they rose from their knees. “Willie gives us 
a verse each morning, as you know, sir,” he added. 


INTRODUCTIONS. 


61 


“ ‘ He that dwelleth in the secret place of the most 
High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty,’ ” 
said the little lad, and then the others, standing, repeat- 
ed in unison the strong, rich promise. 

“Much obliged, Willie; that is good enough for 
one day. Now, Edith, I will go over to the house and 
come back in a little while to bring you.” 

“ Do n’t be long, Louis ; all my woman’s curiosity 
is on the alert to see this new home, not a glimpse of 
which has been permitted me yet.” 

“I will walk along with you,” said Mr. Trask, and 
the gentlemen departed, Willie skipping by his father’s 
side. 

“And I must attend to my housekeeping duties a 
little,” said Mrs. Trask. “ I have promised Willie to 
drive over to Aunt Sophie’s by-and-by;” and the two 
young ladies were left in the pleasant sitting-room alone. 
Mrs. Agnew brought from her room a napkin, and 
opening disclosed a marvel of color and beauty. 

“May I ask what that is?” said Margie, drawing 
from a basket some plain hemming. 

“A tidy, I believe. I have not the least use for it, 
for I am fairly loaded with that sort of article now from 
my young lady friends in C., but this was such a beauty 
I could not resist. Are not you fond of fancy work ?” 
with a glance at the plain linen. 

“ I must be unfashionable enough to say, not very,” 
replied Margie. “ You must know, Mrs. Agnew, that 


62 


FATHER'S HOUSE . 


I am a very matter-of-fact person. I like to see the 
pretty things around us, but when it comes to doing 
them myself I must see an undoubted end and aim in 
everything I do, or I lose my interest at once. Now 
mamma will do a great deal more in the ornamental 
line than I, for all I ’m the younger.” 

“ I ’m afraid then I Ve wasted a good deal of time, 
for I ’ve done a quantity of such work,” said Mrs. 
Agnew. 

“ I do n’t think it ’s wasted time ; that is, not always,” 
explained Margie; “and not for other people, but it 
does seem so for me.” 

Mrs. Agnew looked a little blank at this not very 
lucid explanation, considering that the speaker was a 
young lady of leisure and means, but just then diver- 
sion came in the form of Connie Harris at the open 
door. 

“Out for a morning ramble,” she said, coming 
quickly forward. “ Good morning, Margie ; good 
morning, Mrs. Agnew. Not at housekeeping yet, I 
see.” 

“ No, still living on our friends ; but we expect to 
relieve them soon,” was the reply. 

“The relief in this case will be a loss,” said 
Margie. 

“Thank you. What a difference there is in people 
now. No one would think of doubting your sincerity, 
Miss Trask, even when you utter compliments.” 


INTRODUCTIONS. 63 

“Perhaps because they are so rare,” answered the 
young lady laughing. “ Is n’t that so, Connie ?” 

“As Mrs. Agnew says, Margie, you have a character 
for truthfulness,” replied her friend. “ But I have come 
for business, Margie. I have an idea this morning, 
scarce as your compliments, you know, so I hold it 
fast.” 

“Speak on, Connie dear; we’re all attention.” 

“ It ’s about the Lectures.” 

“Is it possible! I cannot explain it, but I believe 
that word has not been spoken in this house this 
morning.” 

“ No ? Well, I was wondering if we, you and I, say, 
could not have some influence with some of the mill- 
girls and get them to go by speaking with them about 
the matter.” 

“A good idea, Connie; I ’ll do my part.” 

“You see, Mrs. Agnew, it’s so hard to get hold of 
some of these girls to influence them in any way. They 
think they’re too old for Sunday-school; they leave 
school when they are only little girls, and so they get 
over caring for anything improving or helpful. And 
yet some of them are nice girls and enjoy pleasant 
things. You remember that Hilda Duncan, Margie, 
at the public school ? what a good scholar she was, and 
what pretty ladylike ways she had. I see her at 
church often and at Sabbath-school, but her class is on 
the other side and I have never spoken with her. You 


64 


FATHERS HOUSE. 


see, Mrs. Agnew, Margie and I only came home from 
school this summer for good, so we have n’t got started 
yet in work. I ’m wondering too,” she continued, “ if 
we can’t get up a reading class or something of the 
kind this winter, Margie. Do n’t you believe we can ?” 

“We ’ll try” 

“ My dear friends,” exclaimed Mrs. Agnew, raising 
her hands, “please do not overwhelm me. I do not 
think I in the least realized what I was undertaking 
when I became Louis’ wife. Does that put me on an 
entirely new plane of duty ?” 

“ By no means, Mrs. Agnew,” said Connie laughing, 
“ do n’t be alarmed. It only gives you new privileges, 
that ’s all. And I do think we are talking rather fast 
and far this morning ; but, you see, Margie and I are 
such very old friends that we never have to begin at 
the beginning of things.” 

“How pleasant that is,” said Mrs. Agnew with a 
wistful tone in her voice; “and you must remember, 
please, too, that all my friends are just at the beginning 
here. Everybody has to study me, and I have to study 
every one. And I ’m not good at all, girls ; I may as 
well tell you that, for an opening promise, as to leave 
you to find it out for yourselves. I ’m brim full of 
faults, and how I ever dared to marry a minister I ’m 
sure I do n’t see ; only, I just forgot his profession and 
thought only of his being Louis Agnew this last with 
a very becoming blush. 


IN TROD UCTIONS. 


65 


Connie bent over and kissed the pink cheek on the 
spot. “ I ’m glad we Ve got a minister’s wife that isn’t 
all made-up already, cut and dried, as it were. Why, 
Mrs. Agnew, I think it will be just splendid for you to 
grow right along~with your people, and they ’re your 
first ones too, you know.” 

“ If they were only all like you,” said the little lady, 
brushing away her tears, and looking at the two bright 
faces beside her. 

“O dear, no,” exclaimed Margie; “but, Mrs. Ag- 
new, you may depend upon us for help. We will do 
all we can for you.” 

“And keep you in work, I assure you,” added 
Connie. 

“ That is what I really want, girls,” and Mrs. Ag- 
new’s face wore its gravest look. It wasn’t a deter- 
mined face, like Margie Trask’s. It looked “full of 
possibilities,” a close observer had once said of it; but 
the soft-rounded chin was at variance with the broad 
low forehead, and the hazel eyes had not yet gained 
the look that comes from battles fought and won. They 
were full of questioning now and longing. “ I have 
never been anything but a drone to be cared for and 
petted; I have never thought I had a chance to find 
out whether there really is anything in me or not. 
Sometimes I have dreamed there was, and I suppose 
grew quite puffed up, for then I would take some mis- 
erable step right down into the valley of humiliation. I 
Q 


Father’s House. 


66 


FATHER'S HOUSE. 


think I ’ll never be anything but a girl, any way,” and 
the merry laugh at the end of her serious speech 
showed the happy heart within. 

At this minute Willie made his appearance. “ Mrs. 
Agnew, the minister says he ’s ready for you now, and 
if Margie ’ll go over with you he wont come.” 

The three sprang up. “ You ’ll go too, Miss Harris, 
of course ?” 

“Yes, indeed.” 

At the hall-door Mrs. Agnew hesitated. “ My wrap- 
per, girls?” 

“ Oh, it’s not far,” said Margie; but the lady shook 
her head. “ I ’ll not detain you long,” she said; “ but 
first impressions go a great way. I ’ll make haste.” 

And in a few minutes she made her appearance 
again, this time in a daintily-trimmed white, whose va- 
rious ruffs and adornings made the girls glance at their 
plain cambrics in mute contrasting. “ Now I am pro- 
tected,” laughed Mrs. Agnew, as they sallied out the 
gate, one on either side of the stranger; and as the 
three passed up the street, there were many eyes turned 
with admiring glances upon them. 

Valley Falls was a village of considerable extent, 
and in the higher parts, back from the river and the 
factory lanes, there were handsome residences with 
'well-kept grounds, and smaller but equally tasteful 
homes, whose yards bloomed with a profusion of flowers 
and vines. 


INTRODUCTIONS. 


67 


At the gate of a pleasant gray cottage on a side 
street the girls stopped after a little, and Mr. Agnew, 
hastening down the short walk, held open the gate for 
them to pass, and then putting his wife’s hand on his 
own arm, said eagerly, “This is home, Edith; how do 
you like it ?” 

“ It is lovely, Louis. I cannot help but be happy 
here.” 

They lingered a moment on the vine-covered piazza 
to look off at the view, for the parsonage stood on a 
gentle height, and commanded much of the village, and 
then went in at the open door; and from the tastefully- 
furnished parlor to the kitchen closet, everything was 
explored by four pairs of eager eyes, and four tongues 
ran in a ceaseless flow of exclamations over each new 
surprise. 

“ How lovely !” the young wife exclaimed, as they 
stopped at last in the study, a commodious room, from 
whose windows she looked off over valley and hill on 
as beautiful a picture as could be found anywhere. 
“ Surely, Louis, you cannot but write well with such a 
scene spread out before you.” 

“ I trust so, Edith,” replied her husband ; “ and, 
dear,” he added, as they stood a moment alone, “ we 
will try to make it a sacred place too, shall we not ? 
Here we will learn to leave our burdens. This shall be 
the sanctuary of our home, the place where our Elder 
Brother shall delight to dwell.” 


68 


FATHER'S HOUSE. 


“ Even our ‘ chamber of peace.’ I trust so, Louis, 
and we will pray so.” 

As they rejoined the others in the pleasant sitting- 
room below, they all found themselves tired enough to 
drop into the easy seats and enjoy the soft morning air, 
with its country scents and village sounds drifting in 
through the long windows that looked out upon the 
narrowed picture they had seen from the study above. 

“ How beautiful this is for a home !” said Margie. 

“ It is indeed,” said Mr. Agnew, “ and I would like 
to make it lovely in the eyes of my people ; my peo- 
ple’s home also, as a parsonage ought to be — a place 
for them to lose their cares, and to carry away joy of 
heart instead. I cannot tell you, my friends, all that I 
long to be, and will be, with God’s help, to these new 
friends and the voice of the earnest speaker stopped, 
checked by the sudden emotion of longing that swept 
over him. 

There was silence for a while in the sunny room, 
and then he spoke again. “For one thing, I am going 
to give one home-evening a week to my people. That 
is, one regular evening each week my house shall be 
open to all to come and visit us and one another in a 
social manner. No refreshments, no ceremony; just a 
gathering-time that we will try to make bright and 
cheery. What do you think of my idea ?” 

“ I think it is an admirable one,” said Connie 
eagerly. “ How much may be accomplished by it !” 


IN TROD UCTIONS. 


69 


“ I want to bring all in,” added Mr. Agnew, “ the 
poorest member of my flock to feel' as welcome as the 
richest. I shall give a general invitation every Sabbath 
with the other notices, and I shall depend upon you, 
young ladies, to assist in every possible way — to find 
out the particularly sensitive, and urge them to come. 
This it will not be best for me to do except from the 
pulpit ; it must be lay work. I shall expect your music 
and your wits to be employed for the occasion. Am I 
taxing you too greatly ?” 

“ Not at all,” answered the girls; and then followed 
a planning and arranging, under which the morning 
hours slipped past unheeded. At last Connie looked 
at her watch, and found it nearly eleven o’clock. 

“I must go,” she exclaimed; “and you, Mrs. Ag- 
new, will leave your husband dinnerless, I fear, in this 
new paradise, if you do not soon see your kitchen and 
Mary Ann.” 

“ It is fortunate there is a stout-handed Mary Ann 
there,” said the young housekeeper, laughing, “for my 
experience in that line is yet to come. Not that I am 
entirely ignorant of domestic science ; I had too sensi- 
ble a mother for that, and I have not spent my twenty- 
four years in entire idleness; but still I am humble 
enough to believe there are yet ‘worlds to conquer.’” 

“You will not measure your rice then in a quart 
cup,” asked Margie. 

“ No, nor boil my peas in two gallons of water, nor 


70 


FATHER'S HOUSE. 


cover up my new yeast in a can with a heavy weight, 
for the sake of having an illustration of latent force.” 

“ A few minutes more,” pleaded Mr. Agnew. “ You 
are my first callers in the new home and life. Before 
you go let us ask of our Master wisdom for the new 
work, and especially help in the newly-proposed plan. 
It will make the consecration of our new home to its 
work of service for others none the less dear that two 
of our people join in its Amen. Let us pray.” 

And after the earnest words the two girls went 
quietly out, feeling that the blessing sought could not 
be far away. 


THE NEW APPOINTMENT. 


7 1 


CHAPTER V. 

THE NEW APPOINTMENT. 

They parted at Margie’s gate, after promising to 
meet again that afternoon and go out together in a 
new line of calls. Margie found that her mother and 
Willie had gone on their drive, and her father had 
suddenly been called by business to a distant town for 
the day. On the table, however, lay a note for her, 
directed in Mr. Trask’s well-known hand. It read 
thus : 

“My dear Margie: Your mother has gone, and 

I must hasten to take the first train for L . I had 

promised, however, a little work for to-day for which 
I must appoint you my substitute. There is a poor 
widow, mother of Peggy Morrissy, of whom you know, 
living, or rather dying on Hart Lane. Will you please 
see her to-day, and carry her some delicacy — you 
know best what — with kind words both for yourself 
and me? 

“ Lovingly, 

“YOUR FATHER.” 

That afternoon when Connie presented herself after 
a five o’clock tea, she found Margie at the gate, a 


72 


FATHERS HOUSE . 


bottle of beef soup in hand, and a glass of currant-jelly 
in the fancy pocket at her side. 

“ I have an added commission,” she explained, “ so 
am all ready and waiting;” and she told of her father’s 
note. 

Their calls this time took them away from the 
pleasant part of the town, down near the river. Here 
the streets became lanes, branching out from the differ- 
ent mills, and bearing the names of the owners. They 
were narrow and close, but at this hour of the day 
comparatively quiet. Women were sitting by the 
windows or in the doorways, caring for the babies, or 
mending, and calling across from one door to another in 
good-natured gossip. Children, too small for work, 
were running about, or disputing over marbles in the 
dirt. 

“They are as happy here as anywhere; the little 
ones, I mean,” said Connie. 

“ Yes,” replied her friend, “ what a good provi- 
dence it is.” 

As they came into the lane near the Valley Falls 
Mills, which was decidedly the neatest and in the best 
state of repair and paint of any in the town, they had 
frequent stops, for here Margie knew many of the 
“hands,” and had kind inquiries about old folks and 
children to make, so they were quite a while making 
their way along. 

Nearly at the end they found the home of Peggy, 


THE NEW APPOINTMENT. 


73 


her sick mother and two little sisters. One glance at 
the poor woman showed that consumption had nearly 
finished its work. Their room opened directly upon 
the narrow street, and with the windows and door set 
wide open, that the poor sufferer might breathe more 
easily, every sound from the children outside and the 
unceasing roar of the machinery in the near factory 
were plainly heard. 

“You cannot get much rest here,” said Margie, 
taking the fan from Peggy’s hand and sitting by the 
side of the bed. 

“I don’t indeed, miss,” panted the woman, “not 
till the dark stops them, and then it seems as though 
the whirr of the wheels went on inside my head all the 
night long. But I ’ve no complaint to make the day, 
miss, for Peggy is at home, and I ’ve my eyes to put 
on her till the last. I ’m most gone, miss,” she added. 

“ That is not a sad thought,” said Connie quietly, 
“ if you look forward to better things.” 

“ Yes, I ’m most gone,” the woman repeated ; “ and 
it ’s been a long, hard way I ’ve come, too. There 
never was much sunlight on it, only the few months 
that Peggy’s father and I lived in the little cot on the 
bog in old Ireland. Then the fever took him, and, 
Peggy, you and I came across the water to see if there 
was any sunlight here. I thought so at first when I 
met him, but that proved the dark day after all. He ’s 
gone, I don’t know where, and left me those sickly 


Father’s House. 


IO 


74 


FATHER'S HOUSE. 


little children to care for; and now what’ll become of 
’em all?” 

“I’ll care for them, mother dear,” said Peggy, 
coming from the head of the bed where she had been 
quietly weeping; “I’m young and strong, never you 
fear for the childer.” 

“ Peggy ’s a good girl,” said the poor mother, “ but 
where’ll your own husband come from 7 No one will 
want to be hampered with two more.” 

“ Never mind, mother,” said Peggy blushing. “ If 
you talk so much, you ’ll cough that bad again noth- 
ing ’ll stop you. See what Miss Trask has brought 
you. Will you have a bit of the jelly, now, just to lie 
on your tongue and cool it like?” 

“ You ’re a good girl, Peggy lass,” said the mother, 
“ and I ’ll see you to the last. Bless those who sent 
you back to the poor dying mother the morn.” 

At last she was persuaded to take a little of the 
cooling jelly, and shortly after she fell into a light doze, 
and the girls rose to go. 

“ Come to us, Peggy, if you want anything, or if 
she does,” said Margie at the door; “some of us will 
be down to-morrow.” 

“ Thank you kindly, miss,” answered the girl through 
fast-falling tears, “but I think she ’ll not bide the night; 
she ’ll go at the turn, most likely.” 

And so she did. The next morning, when Mrs. 
Trask called, she found doors and windows closed and 


THE NEW APPOINTMENT. 


75 


curtains drawn, while the worn-out frame within lay 
silent and motionless. 

“ Which way shall we go ?” asked Margie, as they 
came out of Peggy’s door. “ See, the mill is stopping, 
and the girls will be out in a minute.” 

“ Come through this cross street,” replied Connie. 
“ I want to see Hilda Duncan, and she lives in that 
direction, Lissa told me.” 

By walking rapidly they succeeded in coming out 
on the other street just as the factory -girls, whose way 
home lay in that direction, were in sight. This was not 
a lane, but quite a business street, and it happened that 
Mrs. Agnew and another lady were there shopping, 
and the four stopped a moment. Just then also Kate 
and Hilda together came near enough to recognize the 
ladies, whom they were about to pass. 

“Mercy on us,” whispered Kate, “there’s Con 
Harris and Marge Trask ! What are we going to do ?” 

Kate had the false idea that many coarse girls have, 
that the less of a handle they give to a name the more 
familiar it makes them with the owner. 

“Nothing, that I can see,” replied Hilda; “the 
road is wide enough.” 

“ But there ’s the new minister’s wife too,” added 
Kate, “ and I would n’t have her see me looking like 
this for anything. Sfie ’d never notice us again. Let ’s 
go back around the lane.” 

Hilda hesitated a moment and glanced at her com- 


76 


FATHER'S HOUSE. 


panion, then at herself. Her own dress was at least 
whole and comparatively clean, but Kate looked as 
though she could bear considerable soap and water as 
well as needle and thread. Then she shook her head 
with a determined little gesture of her own. 

“I’m not going back,” she said; “I’ve been at 
work, and they know it. Besides, they ’ll not be likely 
to see me anyway.” This last with just a touch of bit- 
terness, as she remembered well when those two girls 
used to like to get her help on difficult examples or in 
long sentences of parsing. Kate did not stop to argue, 
but disappeared between two buildings, making the 
best of her way back to the lane. Hilda glanced over 
to the other side of the street, but there they were 
building, and the bricks and mortar entirely filled the 
walk. 

“ There ’s nothing to do but to go straight forward,” 
she thought; and this she was quietly doing without 
raising her eyes, when, just as she was passing the four 
ladies, a prettily gloved hand was laid on her arm, and 
a voice that she remembered very well said, 

“This is Hilda Duncan, I believe; is it not?” 

“ It is,” said the girl, looking up. 

“And you remember me, Connie Harris, do you 
not? We used to have good times at school together. 
And here is Margie Trask.” 

“ I am glad to see you, Hilda,” said Margie. “ I 
should have found you out when I was down at the 


THE NEW APPOINTMENT. 


77 


mill, but I did not know you were there until lately. 
Mrs. Agnew, this is one of your new people also ; Miss 
Duncan and Mrs. Waters.” 

Poor Hilda, it took all the courage she owned not 
to run away as fast as her feet could carry her. She 
did not care so much for Connie and Margie, for, mind- 
ful of where they were going, they had dressed in sim- 
ple street suits ; but the other two were in full prome- 
nade costume, and as Mrs. Agnew offered her daintily- 
gloved fingers, all the grime and dust of the whole 
factory seemed to the young girl to have settled upon 
her own bare ones, though . she had washed them clean 
before coming out. As for Mrs. Waters, a distant nod 
was all she thought necessary to give, and Hilda 
thanked her for the coolness. She stood, looking very 
pretty, if she could have known it, for the warm day 
had only curled and waved her unruly brown locks 
about her oval face, and the deeply-flushed cheeks 
and downcast lids with their long lashes made a pretty 
picture. So at least Connie thought, though she pitied 
her embarrassment. 

“ Margie,” she said, “ if you will finish our arrange- ^ 
ments with these ladies, I will walk a little way with { 
Hilda, and you can overtake me. I want to speak 
with her.” 

“ Has any one spoken to you about the lectures ?” 
she asked, as they walked on. 

“ Yes ; Mr. Trask.” 


78 


FA THER'S HOUSE . 


“ Are you going ?” 

“ Yes, I have two tickets, for my sister and myself. ,, 

“That is good; I am very glad Do you think 
many of the girls will go ?” 

“ I am afraid not.” 

“Will Kate Marsh?”, 

“ She might if you asked her.” 

“ I must try and find her then, perhaps at the fac- 
tory. How do you like our new minister ?” 

“ I like him,” replied Hilda, “ though I have only 
heard him twice.” 

“ I do too. And I think we shall like his wife very 
much. Anyway, it is our business to help them both 
all we can.” 

“You can do a great deal, Miss Harris, but there is 
nothing for me.” 

“ You ’re the first person then, Hilda Duncan, for 
whom there is nothing to do, and I think you will find 
a good deal ;” and she told of Mr. Agnew’s plan for 
meeting bis people and giving them pleasure, adding, 
“ And this was what I wanted to tell you, and ask you 
to be sure and come.” 

“ O Miss Harris, I could not.” 

“Why not?” 

“Why, everybody will be there — Mrs. Hart and 
all, you know.” 

“ All the better,” urged Connie ; “ you can be lost 
at once in a crowd, and go around like a mouse. Mr. 


THE NEW APPOINTMENT. 


79 


Agnew wants all his people to come. Wont you come 
to please him ?” 

“ But I cannot, indeed ; I ’d be out of place.” 

“Not in your minister’s house,” pleaded Connie; 
“ and, Hilda, wont you come for once, just to please 
me?” and the brown eyes of the judge’s daughter 
looked straight into the equally nut- colored ones of the 
factory-girl. There was no escaping their pleading, 
and Hilda promised. 

The next Sabbath morning there was a new notice 
read among the usual ones from the pulpit : 

“Your pastor and his wife will be happy to see at 
the parsonage, on next Tuesday evening, all his peo- 
ple, in an informal gathering, for the purpose of becom- 
ing better acquainted with one another, and more inter- 
ested in each other’s wants. And I will state here that 
this is not to be the appointment of this week only, but 
for the year. We propose to open our home every 
Tuesday evening with a cordial greeting for all our 
people. Come, bringing the Master’s spirit of loving- 
kindness, and let its influence fill the house, and see if 
there will not come to us all a blessing. This is not 
the children’s evening. I would rather they did not 
come on that evening except in the company of older 
friends. We will have another time for their distinc- 
tive gathering. From seven until half-past nine of 
every Tuesday, God permitting. Please bear this in 
mind.” 


8 o 


FATHER'S HOUSE. 


This announcement caused quite a flutter among 
the Valley Falls charge. 

“ The idea !” said Mrs. Hart, lounging back on the 
cushions of her luxurious carriage. “ Why, such an 
invitation as that is calculated to draw in all the rab- 
ble ; the very ‘ hands ’ may take advantage of it.” 

“ I should think so,” assented the daughter, “ and it 
is terribly embarrassing. Why, I can never come near 
one of those people without being reminded of oil and 
grease and all kinds of unpleasant things.” 

“Of course not,” said her mother with an air of 
intense disdain, “all those things pertain to work peo- 
ple;” and as this fine lady had been a tailoress before 
her marriage, and had done her own work in very close 
quarters for ten years afterwards, she was surely qual- 
ified to judge. 

There was a gentleman occupying the fourth seat 
of the carriage, with a bearing at once courteous and 
frank. In the choice diction of Miss Hart he was a 
“great catch,” for he had both money and “blue 
blood,” and when she found that he was to spend a few 
days with them, detained by business, she determined 
that no effort of hers should be spared to win his name 
for herself if possible. Now she supplemented her 
mother’s remark by saying, “And the worst of.it is, 
such people take all public places and privileges as 
their right, as much as though they were born under 
the purple.” 


THE NEW APPOINTMENT. 8r 

“But after all,” asked Mr. Stoddard in his clear 
refined tones, “is not this very fact one that makes us 
proud of our country, and its educating influences? 
Is it not a matter to rejoice over that character makes 
a place for itself in spite of the accidents of birth ? Is 
not that the glory of being called an American ?” 

“I presume, sir,” replied Mr. Hart in his most 
pompous tones, “ I should have entered more heartily 
into your feelings in my younger days.” Doubtless he 
would, as his trade of mason, which he had practised 
until he was more than thirty years of age, was not very 
far removed from that of a hod-carrier. “But now, 
with my years of experience and observation, I see 
great faults in our national system. It ’s too much of 
a conglomerate, sir, altogether too much of a conglom- 
erate; and some day, sir, will go down like a poor 
wall, a sight for the world to behold.” In moments of 
excitement Mr. Hart always went back to illustrations 
from the “ trade.” 

“ I believe I have greater faith in our country than 
you have, Mr. Hart,” said Mr. Stoddard smiling; “I 
believe God has a design in our experiment of free 
government, and will bring us through its crises tri- 
umphantly; at least that is what I love to think and 
pray for.” 

“Well, what I often wish is,” said Miss Laura, “that 
I could have been born in England. One feels so safe 
and assured of place there.” 


Father’s House. 


II 


82 


FATHER'S HOUSE. 


“But you know, Miss Hart,” said Mr. Stoddard, 
“that even there all are not born dukes or lords; there 
are commoners also. Yet I agree with you that un- 
pleasant associations are very trying and quite com- 
mon. 

“By the way,” he continued, “I think you are for- 
tunate in your new pastor; he seems earnest and 
scholarly.” 

“And so poetical,” put in Miss Laura. 

“ I am very well pleased with him in the pulpit so 
far,” said the elder lady; “though of course he is 
nothing compared with Dr. Hillman ; but we are here 
such a short part of the year that we can bear it. But 
I do hope he is not one of those young men who are 
for ever running after new-fangled notions. I am of a 
very preservative cast myself.” 

“Conservative, I presume you mean, mamma,” said 
the daughter sharply. “Well, his notions will not 
trouble us long at any rate, and Dr. Hillman, thank 
fortune, is never troubled with any that are disturbing;” 
which was true enough. 

By this time the coachman drove up to their own 
door, and the profitable after-church review was ended. 

“Mother,” said the pale little dressmaker, Miss 
Flagg, about this same time, “ such a pleasant thought 
has been put in our new minister’s heart: we are all 
invited there every Tuesday evening to meet him and 
one another. No formality, a simple at-home evening.” 


THE NEW APPOINTMENT. 


83 


“And you think it will be a pleasure, daughter?” 
asked the invalid, turning loving eyes on the sweet 
face. 

“ Of course, mother. Wont it give me a glimpse of 
happy faces, and books, and music ? for of course there 
will be all these, and I shall have them to live over 
again with you, on rare occasions when duty admits of 
my going.” 

“ They must not be rare, daughter, but frequent, for 
both our sakes. I think Mrs. Holland is always glad 
of an excuse to bring her work in of an evening and sit 
with me. There is no one to keep her poor room so 
cheerful as you do mine.” 

“ The cheerfulness is your part, mother mine; but on 
those days I can forego my usual walk and reserve the 
time until evening. Why, it is such a blessing to look 
forward to, mother.” 

“And we will both enjoy it, daughter, and thank 
our Father for the gift,” was the mother’s answer. 

So there were different feelings over the minister’s 
new announcement, as is usually the case. 


8 4 


FATHER'S HOUSE. 


CHAPTER VI. 

ONE EVENING. 

Were you ever a girl? And did you ever, when 
you were going out for an evening, stand before the 
glass, and tie and arrange, and untie and disarrange, 
until you were as thoroughly out of sorts as your 
conscience permitted — perhaps a trifle more so? 

If you have never been a girl, or, like some have 
forgotten how you felt at that trying age, you can of 
course have no sympathy with our Hilda on the eve- 
ning of that first gathering at the parsonage. It had 
been a trying day all through. In the first place she 
got up with a headache, and headaches are just as hard 
to endure when one has to stand on one’s feet and work 
twelve hours out of the twenty-four, as when idleness, 
the easiest of chairs, and quiet can be its accompani- 
ments. Besides, it was not a good, honest, out-and-out 
ache, that seemed to take fair possession and say, 
“Here I am; make the best of me that you can;” but 
a miserable undecided thing, that kept every nerve 
tingling with a dread of more to follow, and that sent 
its twinges springing out at the most unexpected mo- 
ments, or in revenge for every forgetful movement. 

However, that had quite disappeared by night, but 


ONE EVENING. 


85 


it left her in just that state of body when one feels as if 
some unusual indulgence ought to be allowed to one- 
self. And temptation came in the form of Kate Marsh. 
For despite the fact that Hilda’s new idea had quite 
taken possession of her, and the two five-dollar bills of 
her own and Rob’s two “twos,” snugly laid away in 
their “bank-box,” were present to her thoughts every 
hour in the day, and she had calculated just how many 
windows or doors of the new home that would buy, 
still, the living in the future could not make her quite 
forgetful of the present hour, or alter the fact that she 
was “only a girl” yet, with all the longings and fancies 
usually belonging to her age. 

“You are going this evening, I suppose?” Kate 
had said, and Hilda answered, “I don’t know; I 
presume so; are you?” 

“Yes; Con. Harris spoke to me the other day and 
told me to be sure and come. Not that I am goose 
enough to suppose she cares, but then I ’ve a mind to 
go and show her that I can make as good an appear- 
ance as she can. I ’ve got my new dress at home,” 
she added. 

“Have you? Does it suit?” 

“It’ll do. Miss Flagg thought she couldn’t possi- 
bly get it done, but I went there last night and stayed 
until twelve o’clock and kept her at it till I took it 
home. For she was promised to Mrs. Cragin to-day.” 

“I thought Miss Shelby was to make it?” 


86 


FATHER'S HOUSE. 


“ I found I could get Miss Flagg cheaper, and her 
work is just as nice, and better too.” 

“ She looks sick all the time,” said Hilda. 

“ She’ll have the consumption, they say, but she ’s a 

good worker. Pa says he knew when nobody in L 

lived in better style than they did, and Miss Flagg was 
brought up terribly genteel. She ’s a lady now ; I ’ll 
say that for her. I tell you, the dress is a beauty; 
you wont know me in it.” 

“ More likely you wont know me when you get it 
on,” replied Hilda with a faint smile. 

And now in spite of her good sense Hilda had a 
miserable afternoon, and all about her dress. You 
must know how hungry this young girl’s heart was, 
for just a few of the things that were the daily life of 
such as Connie Harris: a little of the culture and 
grace ; a breath of the atmosphere of books and pic- 
tures and flowers, that she knew surrounded some 
people. And this evening had promised her a glimpse, 
such as she seldom enjoyed, of a world that she longed 
to enter. 

It had been easy then to consider the outward 
adorning a secondary thing, and to contemplate herself 
in her simple black cashmere of the last winter with 
undisturbed serenity. “ For I shall not wear my brown 
and blue,” she said to Alice; “ it looks like a made over 
thing after all ; and besides, I don’t want Margie Trask 
to think I have been copying her, as I have.” 


ONE EVENING. 


87 


But this afternoon the body was more than the 
spirit, as may have been our own experience sometimes. 
Kate Marsh cared for nothing beyond the pleasure of 
the hour, and would find far more of that in the shabbi- 
est sleight-of-hand performance than in the best literary 
entertainment ever offered; and yet — and yet — Hilda 
was not silly enough to say even to herself* that she 
was vexed because Kate was going to dress so much 
better on the outside than she, while she knew there 
was more inside of her own head; but that was the 
root of the matter after all. And when the bell sounded 
their release after the long day, no more discontented 
girl went down the factory stairs than this same Hilda 
.Duncan. 

The evenings were beginning to feel the autumn 
chill, and she shivered a little as she came from the 
warm air of the weaving-room into the river breeze 
outside. 

Peggy Morrissy chanced to be beside her at the 
open door. “It’s but little matter to me now,” she 
was saying to some one, “ where I am. There ’s no 
light in the house left for me ; only the bit children to 
be fed and put to bed, and then I ’m all alone till the 
bell rings in the morning ; and it used to be very dif- 
ferent. She always had a glad word and a bright eye 
for me, she who ’s gone now, peace to her soul.” 

“ I ’m cold; I’m going this way; it’s the shortest,” 
Hilda said to her companion, and with a brief “good- 


88 


FA THEWS HOUSE. 


night” she hurried through a by-street homeward. 
She did not often go this way and knew but little 
about it. When near the end she noticed the sign 
“Selling out” over a little fancy store, and glancing 
up at the window saw, among other things, a showy 
lace tie, marked for “ half price,” and it occurred to her 
that she had actually nothing in that line except a very 
modest blue knot, clean enough for evening wear. 

Opening the door she asked permission to examine 
the offered bargain, and the shopwoman with voluble 
words of praise took it down. No one at all familiar 
with lace would ever have mistaken this for the “real” 
article. Even Hilda in her ignorance on the subject 
pronounced it coarse in her own mind. Still it was 
very showily made up, and, as she thought to herself, 
would cover up so much of the plain waist of her dress 
that it would be the first thing noticed ; which was true 
in more senses than one. 

But she had not her purse with her. If she had 
had it, the purchase would have been quickly made. 

“You can take it along,” said the woman, who 
knew Hilda’s face, “and bring me the dollar in the 
morning.” 

“ No,” replied Hilda from some impulse, “ it is only 
a little way and I can send for it if I decide to take it.” 

And now we have come to the opening words of 
our chapter, and find Hilda busy preparing for the 
evening out, with Alice and Bessie looking on, helping 


ONE EVENING . 


89 


or hindering as the case may be. She was going alone, 
for Alice really had not the dress proper; “ but you shall 
have it, Alice, in a little while; I’m saving for it,” 
Hilda said, and then she began to decide about that tie. 

“It’s only one dollar,” whispered desire, “and for 
once.” “You can spend your money fast enough by 
one dollars to make Alice wait a good while for her 
dress,” whispered another voice. 

“ But I am going to begin to be, oh, so saving in 
everything.” 

“Begin then now, and on yourself,” said the wise 
voice. 

“It’s no matter,” Alice said, “I^m perfectly satis- 
fied with my lecture ticket; that’s enough for me for 
one week.” 

And Hilda still put off asking her to run down the 
street and purchase the bit of lace and gauze waiting 
in the shop window. “I can get it as I go,” she 
thought at last ; “it ’ll only be a little out of the way 
and I can put it on in a minute after I get there, and 
then I needn’t tell any one about it to-night;” and 
with this satisfactory conclusion, she fastened back in 
place the natural waves of her own brown hair, suffered 
Alice’s fingers to pin in the filmy ruche, and then with 
a last glance in the little glass said, “ I believe I ’m all 
ready now but my knot ; I can pin that on in a minute. 
What time is it, Alice?” - . 

“Only a quarter of eight, and Rob said he’d be 


Father’s House. 


12 


90 


FATHER'S HOUSE. 


here to go with you at eight. Do n’t put on your bow 
till we come back, Hilda. Bessie, come with me a 
minute,” and the younger sisters ran down the stairs 
and Hilda heard the street door close after their flying 
feet, and she was left alone. 

“Where have they gone, I wonder?” she thought, 
and then sat down quite tired by the day’s work, and 
looked about aimlessly as one will when dressed and 
waiting. 

Beside her lay her little Bible, and Hilda remem- 
bered that it had been unopened that day. Mechani- 
cally she took it up and turned to where her mark 
pointed for the poftion for the day. Yet though her 
petition that morning, “ Guide me, O Lord, in all my 
thoughts and ways this day, and help me in all my 
needs,” had been hastily offered, still He who is far 
better to us than even our desires had heard and now 
sent the answer from his own word. The words that 
met her eye were those of that wonderful passage, 
where, before his crucifixion, Jesus washed the disci- 
ples’ feet and bade them remember the example he 
had given them, and that the disciple is not above his 
Master, neither the servant greater than his Lord. 

And as the great longing of the girl’s heart went 
out, seeking a satisfying fulness, like a flood rushed in 
all the memory of the Saviour’s kingly love, his tender 
service, and her head sank upon her hands in voiceless 
but earnest prayer for his spirit, the spirit of service 







































































ONE EVENING. 


9i 


and of love. And the answer came in rest and quiet- 
ness to the seeking soul. All the troubled waves of 
the day rolled back. “ I am content as he gives,” she 
thought; “ only let me be pure within.” 

When the clock striking eight roused her and her 
eye fell upon the simple knot of ribbon, she smiled. 
‘ ‘ Anything is good enough for me,” she thought, ‘ ‘ who am 
the child ofa king ; nobody can take that name from me.” 

She was still sitting quietly when the girls came 
running in breathless. “ O Hilda, I was so afraid 
you ’d be gone,” cried Alice. “ Mrs. Ferguson had 
been called out to a sick neighbor, and I thought we ’d 
never find her. You see, I was in there to-day and 
she had the loveliest rosebush with six or eight blos- 
soms, and I wished so much for one for your hair that 
I just asked her; and see, she gave me three, and 
leaves too. Now, please, may I put them on?” and 
Alice displayed three of the most delicate, just opening 
rosebuds, and a spray or two of fine green leaves. 

“ How lovely !” exclaimed Hilda. 

“ And I took the bit of lace out of my bow, and I 
want it just like this ;” and Alice laid the floral beauties 
in a little nest of pure white, and then fastened the 
whole at Hilda’s throat, reserving one bud and the 
longest spray to fasten at the side of the brown braid 
and half hide in the short curls at the side. 

Just as the two girls were clapping their hands over 
this crowning effort, Rob hurried in. 


92 


FATHER'S HOUSE. 


“All ready, sis? The boss kept me; don’t scold 
a bit.” 

“Oh, look in the glass once, do!” Alice cried, and 
Hilda obeyed. She did not stop to speculate, but she 
knew there was a change since she last looked there, 
more than even the roses could effect. They could not 
have taken the weary look out of the eyes, nor the 
restless curl from the lips, and both were gone. 

“Don’t sit up, Alice; I’ll tell you all about it in 
the morning, but positively not one word to-night,” 
called Hilda. 

“ I ’ll come for you at half past nine,” said Rob, as 
they reached the parsonage gate. 

“No, you need not; Mr. Sharp’s family are to be 
there, and I will come with them.” 

The door was wide open, and just within stood 
Connie Harris, who was serving as one of the ushers 
for the evening. “ Do n’t give the door to some one 
not interested,” she had said when they were planning 
the details; “ it makes such a difference how a person 
gets into the house;” and so it had been decided that 
she and Margie and two others should alternate in 
that office. 

She saw Hilda at once and met her in the doorway. 
“I am very glad you have come,” she said, and then 
went to the foot of the stairs with her, chatting pleas- 
antly by the way. “Your father is not coming then?” 
she asked. 


ONE EVENING. 


93 


“Not to-night,” answered Hilda; “I hope he can 
next time;” for among the many of this young pastor’s 
charge, none had been more pleased with the prom- 
ised gathering than Mr. Duncan, though he had been 
obliged to go away just now for a few days, on business 
for his employer. 

There had been much thought given to this eve- 
ning’s gathering both in sitting-room and study; ay, 
and prayer too. That was what the young pastor 
believed in. He knew there would be enough to come 
that first time ; curiosity, and a love of novelty, would 
bring the numbers ; but that was not all. 

“I want it to be a permanent thing,” Mr. Agnew 
said. “God willing, I propose now to spend my life 
with this people ; and if I should be spared to see gray 
hairs, I want these social gatherings to be just as wel- 
come then, and more so even than this first one.” 

Mr. and Mrs. Agnew were not standing in state in 
the parlor, when Mr. Hart and his family sailed in with 
much rustling of silk and even a slight flourish of eye- 
glasses. The pastor himself was sitting on an ottoman 
near the door, trying to put at his ease a poor bashful 
boy, whose mother had been so glad of the “ minister’s 
appointment;” “it would be such a good thing for 
Ichabod to go into society.” Ichabod himself, from his 
corner behind the door, had not seemed to appreciate 
his privilege in the least, and the only thing the minis- 
ter had yet learned from him was, that he would 


94 


FA THEN'S HOUSE. 


“rather have a fiddle than anything else in the world,” 
when the arrival occurred. Mr. Agnew went forward 
to meet the guests, and in a minute more his pretty 
wife was by his side. 

It was just then that Hilda came down the stairs 
alone, and lingered looking about her. The pleasant 
rooms were thrown into one, making quite a circuit; 
and the bright lights, the pictures, the scattered articles 
of beauty or curiosity, together with the throng of 
well-dressed, pleasant-looking people, formed a scene 
at once new and strangely entertaining to her. She 
did not care to talk just then, but found her way, un- 
noticed by any one who knew her, to a quiet corner 
near the bay-window, and sat down in the shadow of 
its curtain. 

She knew that she ought to speak to her hosts, but 
they were engaged just then and she would wait. 
From where she sat she could see her pastor speaking 
with the stranger who had been in the Harts’ pew on 
the preceding Sunday. Miss Hart was standing 
beside them, affectedly swinging her fan and occa- 
sionally putting in a word with her self-satisfied air. 
What a handsome man that stranger was, and what a 
thing it must be to be able to say things that he would 
think of enough interest to listen to in that deferential 
manner of his. See, he was listening in that way to 
Mrs. Agnew. But no wonder ; such a bright winsome 
face as hers almost spoke of itself; she was almost as 


ONE EVENING. 


95 


pretty as Connie Harris. And at that moment Connie 
came up and added herself to the little group, which 
was soon joined by Margie Trask. 

And Hilda sat, quietly commenting on the four, so 
unlike, and yet so interesting to this girl looking on 
them together in a plane so widely different from her own. 

Connie, tall, slender, graceful in every movement, 
brown-haired, brown-eyed, with firm sweet lips and an 
indescribable air of polished ease ; Miss Hart about 
the same height but large and loud even to her voice, 
dressed a little beyond the height of fashion, and in a 
brightness of color that Hilda’s good taste condemned 
at once ; Margie with her frank, earnest expression, 
and Mrs. Agnew delicate almost to petiteness. Others 
beside Hilda might have looked on the group with 
pleasure, and with the thought of woman’s possibilities. 

Their dress, too, was the perfect indication of the 
character within that works outward. Margie’s and 
Connie’s were each of some pretty but not striking 
material, made in the mode but not beyond it, simply 
fit for the wearer and the occasion ; while Miss Hart’s 
was suggestive of an “annual ball;” and of Mrs. 
Agnew’s a connoisseur would have simply said, “ Exqui- 
site.” The two girls had looked a little dismayed upon 
first seeing her. 

“ I do wish Mrs. Agnew did not look quite so nice,” 
was Margie’s version of the feeling as she and Connie 
were alone a moment. 


96 


FATHER'S HOUSE . 


“ I am not brave enough to suggest a change,” was 
the reply; “perhaps Mrs. Hart may be pleased.” 

“Yes, but so many others will be embarrassed. 
There are so few of our people that can come here 
every week of the year if a toilet is expected,” answer- 
ed Margie ; “ and her common-sense seems good in all 
other matters.” 

“You have a cheerful, welcoming air that invests 
even your inanimate furniture,” Mr. Stoddard was 
saying. “What magic is it that you ladies possess, 
that you can seem to make even the pictures tender a 
greeting?” 

“In this case,” replied Mrs. Agnew, “I do not 
think they could avoid it, for we really feel so much of 
a welcome, that we must have communicated the sen- 
timent to our dust-brush itself.” 

“ It would be a libel then upon your housekeeping 
qualities, to imagine that a single article could have 
escaped the infection of good will,” said the gentleman. 

“ Of course ; have I not been a housekeeper in good 
and regular standing for nearly a week, and could you 
imagine a flaw in my department?” answered Mrs. 
Agnew laughing. 

“What a pity we must grow old,” put in Margie. 
“Now notice Mrs. Agnew’s joy and enthusiasm in her 
new sphere. It’s all poetry to her. If the bread 
comes out all right, or the rosebush bursts into sudden 
bloom, it’s alike a joy. By-and-by her surprises will 


ONE EVENING. 


97 


settle into expectations and she will get over to the 
negative pole of experience.” 

“And her things will all get old too and out of 
style ; unless she renews them frequently, as we do, I 
mean.” Of course that was from Miss Hart. 

There was the slightest possible elevation of both 
gentlemen’s eyebrows ; the transition of sentiment had 
been so very abrupt. Connie turned away to bite her 
lip, and in doing so caught a glimpse of a plain old 
gentleman sitting near the door and looking with a 
benevolent air on the scene around him. “Father 
Sewall,” everybody called him, and many a happy 
day had Connie spent on his farm in her childhood. 
Now she went over to him at once. “ I’m so glad to 
see you here, Father Sewall,” she exclaimed heart- 
ily. 

“Are you?” replied the old man. “Well, I was 
real glad to come, though mother thought at first we 
were most too old to ride out in the evening; but I 
said to her, by-and-by it ’ll get too cold, and I think 
we can trust the Lord to bring us home all right even 
if it isn’t a moonlight evening.” 

“And your boys are both gone?” 

“Yes, William is in the West, and Samuel must 
needs go to the big city ; but they ’re both good boys 
and keep up their Sunday-school and meetings regu- 
larly.” 

“That’s good; I ’m glad to hear that.” 

13 


Father’s House. 


98 


FATHER'S HOUSE. 


“Miss Harris,” said a quiet voice at her side, “have 
you no friends to introduce me to?” 

“One right here. Mr. Sewall, this is Mr. Stoddard, 
from the same city where your Samuel is. Perhaps 
you would like to ask him some questions.” 

“ And I shall be very happy to answer all that I can,” 
said Mr. Stoddard cordially, and drawing a chair near 
his new acquaintance. “ Miss Harris, they are calling 
you in the next room.” 

Connie hurried away to explain some point in a 
game at which she had started some half-dozen lads 
and misses; and then spying Ichabod, she went over 
to try to persuade him to join the group. 

“ Oh, I would n’t, would n’t for anything,” said the 
poor fellow, twisting his fingers till it seemed as though 
they would come apart at the joints. 

“ I will get you a book of engravings, then, if you 
like,” said Connie. 

“What are they, miss?”, asked the boy. 

“ Pictures,” explained Connie. 

“Yes, I like to look at pictures if they’re real 
funny,” said Ichabod. 

“Plenty of room to grow yet,” commented Connie, 
as she went for the book of rare foreign views, and 
trembled a little as she saw the careless manner in 
which the awkward fingers turned the heavy leaves; 
but a call from Margie took her away, much to Icha- 
bod’s private relief. 


ONE EVENING . 


99 


“ Is every thing going on satisfactorily?” asked Mr. 
Agnew, meeting her a little later alone. 

“ I think so ; every one seems engaged and smiling. 
Mr. Stoddard is quite an addition to the evening. See 
the group he and Father Sewall are entertaining.” 

“Where is Mr. Hart?” 

“He and Mr. May are on the veranda talking busi- 
ness. By the way, Mr. Agnew, have you met Miss 
Flagg, the young lady standing by the flower-stand?” 

“No, but I noticed her in the choir, I think. She 
has a sweet face.” 

“ And a sweet voice too. If she only were not a 
dressmaker, how many there would be to find it out. 
I will introduce you to her.” 

And a few minutes later the sweet face shone full 
of pleasure, as Mr. Agnew, turning from admiring a 
beautiful calla, quoted those words of the Master : “ If 
then God so clothe the grass of the field, which to-day 
is and to-morrow is cast into the oven, shall he not 
much more clothe you, O ye of little faith?” 

“ I love to think of that, sir,” she said, “ my work 
is dressmaking, and I should often grow very tired of 
it, if I did not think how much pains God has taken in 
all these beautiful things about us ; and then I think I 
ought to be willing to do my best too.” 

“And see the beauty of the most common things,” 
continued the pastor; “nothing seems too simple to 
show forth the perfection of his work.” 


100 


FATHER'S HOUSE. 


“Yes, sir; and that makes me like to do the wrong 
side of my work as well as the right, because he seems 
to.” 

“ What a thought for building character,” remarked 
Mr. Agnew, “ that God’s work is perfect all through. 
I suppose there are millions of most beautiful flowers 
that perish every year, upon which no human eye ever 
looks, and yet God for his own satisfaction makes 
them as perfect as possible; and so I suppose we 
ought to be satisfied with nothing less, even in circum- 
stances of which the world knows nothing.” 

“ Thank you, Mr. Agnew, you have given me a 
new thought, and I sit so much at my work that I am 
very glad of such.” 

“Are you alone also, Miss Flagg?” 

“ I have an invalid mother, who never gets out, so 
I hear for her too.” 

“Would she see her pastor?” asked Mr. Agnew. 

“ It would give her the greatest pleasure,” answered 
Miss Flagg; “but you have so many demands upon 
your time that I dared not asked it.” 

“ I shall pot forget it, however,” said the minister. 

“Mr. Agnew,” called Miss Hart in a loud tone, 
though she was nearly at his elbow, “do come and 
help us to decide what shade will look best in the new 
curtains. It is a very important matter, I assure you.” 

“Miss Hart,” said Mr. Agnew turning, “let me 
introduce to you Miss Flagg.” 


ONE EVENING. ioi 

" ,Oh yes, Miss Flagg has worked for me,” replied 
Miss Hart, not lowering her voice in the least ; “ and I 
shall want you again before I go to the city for the 
winter,” she added. 

“ Will you come with us, Miss Flagg ?” asked Mr. 
Agnew. 

“ Thank you, I see a friend in the parlor and will 
go there,” she replied. 

Meanwhile, where was Hilda ? She had sat quiet 
for some time in her shaded retreat watching Connie 
and Margie in their efforts to interest and please others, 
until it suddenly occurred to her that possibly she 
was somewhat selfish, and that she had better look 
about for something to do instead of enjoying her un- 
wonted luxury of dreaming any longer. Near by were 
two old ladies at a stand, trying to make out some 
stereoscopic views with what were so eminently their 
“ company glasses” that she went to their aid, and 
found, as is usually the case, that the giving of pleas- 
ure is its own reward. She had never seen such 
views before, and as the old ladies soon found a more 
congenial topic in soap -making, she had them all to 
herself. A decided rustling of silk near, and a heavy 
odor of perfume, caused her to look up and she saw 
Kate beside her. 

“Ah, have you just come?” she asked. 

“Haven’t been here long. What a rush!” was 
the reply. “ What makes you stay in this corner ?” 


102 


FATHER'S HOUSE. 


“ I like it,” answered Hilda. 

“ I presume so. Come in the sitting-room ; I want 
to show you a chair there worked on velvet. I tell 
you, it ’s just gay.” 

Hilda hesitated, but Kate took her by the arm 
and led her away. As they were admiring the really 
beautiful work Mrs. Agnew and Margie came along, 
and the latter, mindful of her duty, introduced the 
bride to the two girls and then left them. 

Now Mrs. Agnew had heard so many strange 
names of late that it is not to be wondered at that she 
should not recall her previous meeting with Hilda, 
especially in such a change of dress, and after a little 
talk about the chair, was somewhat at a loss what topic 
to introduce next. She did not quite know either 
where to place them. Hilda was, as you have heard, 
plain in attire; but as for her companion, no one in 
the company except Miss Hart began to equal her in 
gorgeous covering, though as Hilda recognized at her 
throat the twin to the very tie that had cost her so 
many thoughts, and contrasted the coarse net with the 
delicate fabric on Mrs. Agnew, she rejoiced inwardly 
that hers was not like it. 

Probably by this time you have caught an inkling 
of the failing of our minister’s little wife. She was 
sincere, well-meaning, earnest in desire to live a true 
Christian life, but she did measure things a great deal by 
the outside appearance, and now we are ashamed to say 


ONE EVENING. 


103 


that her questions and remarks were nearly all addressed 
to Kate, and Hilda stood by a quiet listener, blushing 
once or twice at her companion’s mistakes, but offering 
no correction. In a very few moments the lady of the 
house was called away, and then Hilda hastened back 
to her corner and was fortunate enough to find her 
former seat vacant. She was still enjoying her pictures 
when Connie found her. “ I have looked for you sev- 
eral times,” she said, “but have not happened to find 
you. Do you like these views ? I will get you the 
book of foreign plates, then, that Ichabod failed to 
appreciate.” 

Hilda was very grateful, for her heart had smarted 
a little over Mrs. Agnew’s treatment, and she thanked 
her heartily. 

“I wish I knew enough to explain them to you,” 
said her friend; “but I know of some one who does,” 
with a sudden thought. “ Mr. Stoddard,” she asked a 
moment later, “ have you any objection to giving pleas- 
ure to a working girl ?” 

“On the contrary, it would give me the greatest 
satisfaction,” he answered, and turned to follow Connie’s 
lead. 

When Hilda looked up and saw the handsome face 
of the stranger bowing a smiling greeting to her name, 
she was at first almost too frightened to answer, but 
Mr. Stoddard gave her no chance for embarrassment. 
Pointing to the scene just then under inspection, and 


104 


FATHER'S HOUSE. 


which chanced to be one of the Old World cathedrals, 
he entered at once upon such a description as only 
those who have seen with observant mind can give. 

“I should enjoy nothing better than staying just 
here myself,” said Connie as they turned to a second 
view, “ but stern duty forbids. However, not to break 
up the trio, let me give you a'nother in my place;” for 
her quick eye had caught a glimpse of Miss Flagg’s 
observant face near by, and in a moment she had 
placed her in her own seat, the introduction was over, 
and the talk went on. The little time that remained 
was a new revelation to the thoughtful, longing Hilda. 
She forgot herself and asked questions eagerly, and the 
gentleman seemed quite as pleased with his part as 
narrator. 

Once in answer to some question Miss Flagg re- 
plied, “My mother has told me that when she was in 
Florence that was one of her favorite walks.” 

“Your mother has visited Italy then?” asked the 
gentleman. 

And Miss Flagg, blushing rosily at her forgetful- 
ness, answered, “Yes, she studied music one year under 
Signor V there.” 

“ Indeed ! He was my mother’s teacher also. Do 
you remember the year ?” 

“Yes;” she named it. 

“ Is it possible ! the same year with my mother. I 
know, because her marriage occurred in the following 


ONE EVENING. 


105 


year. Do not think me curious if I ask your mother’s 
name.” 

“Agnes Westcome.*’ 

“I have heard my mother speak of her many times 
as one of her best friends, and wonder what had become 
of her. Do ask her if she remembers Bessie Parker of 
Boston ? How pleased my mother will be to hear of her.” 

They were interrupted by the voice of their pastor 
asking them to unite in a hymn before the hour of 
separation, and Hilda closed the book with a little sigh. 

“I thank you,” said Mr. Agnew, “lor your coming. 
I trust you will care to be here again, as we shall to 
welcome you. Now let us sing ‘ Rock of Ages,’ and 
suffer your pastor to commend you to a prayer-hearing 
God before we separate.” 

And then as the chord was struck upon the piano, 
the many voices broke forth in the precious hymn until 
Father Sewall had to take off his glasses and rub the 
mists from them. “It made me think of what music 
would mean up there,” he said to his wife as they 
jogged safely homeward. 

Hilda had a voice full of music and sweetness, and 
in the mood of the hour she joined in with no thought 
of listeners ; but it was as nothing beside the voice, 
that in the third line took up the grand harmony, from 
the other side of Mr. Stoddard, and to listen to which 
that gentleman hushed his own tenor to the softest 
tones. 


Father’s House. 


14 


io6 


FATHER'S HOUSE. 


“Many thanks for those last introductions,” he said 
to Connie in the hall. “One does not often find so 
fresh and eager a mind as that Miss Duncan’s, and 
Miss Flagg proves to be the daughter of one of my 
mother’s dearest girl friends.” 

“I am so glad; I think they are both hidden 
jewels that I mean to find out,” returned Connie. 

As for Hilda, she carried home the same happy 
spirit in which she had gone to the parsonage. It had 
been a rarely happy experience to her, quiet as it might 
seem to some. She had heard no compliments, re- 
ceived no flattering attentions, but she had found a 
place such as she longed for and felt at home in, and so 
when Rob said, “ Was it jolly ?” she had answered, “ It 
was splendid, every bit of it; and father must go next 
time.” 


NEW DUTIES. 


107 


CHAPTER VII. 

NEW DUTIES. 

If you think work looked very hard and life very 
dull to Hilda the next morning, you are greatly mis- 
taken. Possibly you forget that she went out with a 
prayer in her heart that evening. Life looked a very 
strong, rich thing. It was full of promise, and hope to 
the young is often better than experience to the old. 
She had had one satisfied evening, and there were 
others promised. There was a long day of work before 
her, but through it all she could carry the remembrance 
of the pictures, the pleasant tones, the satisfaction of 
the evening before. Many times during that day did 
the narrow cobwebbed sides of the weaving-room 
stretch out into cathedral walls, and the shifting pan- 
orama of light and shade over mountain and river from 
her eastern window, become some painting of Alpine 
heights or soft Italian plains. 

The joy in her heart welled over in snatches of 
song, and she seemed to carry a smile on her lips all 
day. Anna Morrison, whose own face was gloomy 
enough for a thunder-cloud, watched her jealously. 
“Must have had a good time last night,” she said as 
soon as they were in their corner for noon lunch ; 
“ you Ve been smiling all the morning.” 


io8 


FATHER'S HOUSE . 


“I did; ’twas splendid. Why didn’t you go, 
Anna?” 

“Me? Oh, I ’ve nothing to wear to such places.” 

“As much as I have, Anna. Your brown was new 
at the same time with my black.” 

“Well, the bottom is all worn off of mine.” 

“So was mine until I made it over.” 

“ Oh, yes, it ’s always that ; I hate bothers.” 

“Well,” said Hilda, “I am coming to the conclu- 
sion that everybody in this world has to put up with 
‘ bothers ’ in some shape or other ; and the beauty of 
it is, to make a good-looking article out of pieces.” 

“ Besides, nobody wanted me there,” added Anna. 

“Why, yes, Mr. Agnew did; he wants all his 
people to come. I wish you wouldn’t feel like that, 
anyway, Anna. I do n’t suppose any one would have 
shed any tears if I had not been there, but I had a good 
time, so there ’s one person in the world happier for it, 
and I hope one or two others.” 

“ Kate wore her new dress, of course ?” said Anna. 

“ Yes, and looked very nicely,” replied Hilda, but 
we must admit that it was with a little pang that she 
answered, for Mrs. Agnew’s favor of Kate had left a 
sore spot she did not quite like to touch upon. She 
would have liked to forget it at once, but just then the 
person in question came up. 

“So you made quite a show last night, did you, 
Kate ?” remarked Anna promptly. 


NEW DUTIES. 


109 


Kate was evidently in an extremely placable mood 
over it, for she was very gracious to Anna, and that 
was a rare thing. “ I looked as well as any one,” was 
the reply; “I mean to, when I go anywhere,” with a 
strong emphasis on her personal pronoun that Hilda 
entirely ignored. 

“Will you go every time?” Anna asked her. 

“Not every one, of course, but as often as I can. I 
heard Miss Harris say last night that she thought it 
would be a good idea to let those who wish it go up 
stairs and read — a few in a group, you know, or entire- 
ly by oneself. If they do that, I think it ’ll be grand. 
I love to hear good reading ; and then there are books 
in the library I ’d like so much to look into, if I can’t 
read them.” 

“Well, every one to his idea; that is n’t my notion 
of a good time, by a long shot ; but you ’re half a book- 
worm anyway, Hilda;” and Kate sauntered off, follow- 
ed by a “Well, you a’ n’t, any way,” as a parting from 
Anna. 

That evening was a very happy one in Mr. Duncan’s 
plain kitchen. The father came home before supper, 
and at that meal Hilda had a great deal to tell about 
the parsonage and its pleasant gathering. And after 
the dishes were washed, they all sat down around the 
lamp, the girls with their work and Rob with a paper, 
and between his scraps of news Hilda repeated what 
Mr. Stoddard had told her of foreign lands, and of the 


IIO 


FATHER'S HOUSE. 


pictures she had seen that had been in her mind all 
day. 

“ Did you ever want to go over the sea to foreign 
countries ?” she asked her father. 

“When I was young like you, yes; and I thought 
then I ’d surely do it,” was the reply. 

“Ah, wouldn’t it be gay, just?” cried Rob. “Just 
think of the ships and the crowds and crowds of people, 
and the getting quite out of sight of land and then 
coming to it again, and the great London bridge and 
the big tunnel and the catacombs! Ah!” 

“They say there’s wonderful machinery on that 
side the water, and curious clocks and such things,” 
put in Mr. Duncan. 

“And St. Peter’s church, and the music,” said 
Alice. 

“ And the paintings, and the old palaces and castles, 
and the Rhine,” joined in Hilda, laughing. “Come, 
Bessie, what do you want over the sea?” 

“Frankie Abbott says that her cousin in Boston has 
got a real, most-alive new doll just from Paris ; that ’s 
over there, isn’t it, Hilda?” answered Bessie promptly. 

“Yes, you dear, and that’s as high as we can go 
to-night, so we ’ll come home again. Father Sewall 
was there, father, and he inquired for you ; and so did 
Mrs. Jacobs, whom mother used to like so well, you 
know. I had n’t seen her before to speak with her in a 
long time, and I was so glad to meet her; and Mr. 


NEW DUTIES. 


hi 


Trask asked for you too. You must be sure and go 
next time ; you will enjoy it, I know.” 

“ I suppose I ’m just like a woman, and will have to 
think of my clothes first. Do you think, Hilda, that 
my coat will do to wear? It’s dreadfully rusty, I 
know, and the trouble is, it looks as bad by lamplight 
as in the daytime. If it had n’t been for that doctor’s 
bill and my lost time, I ’d have had a new one before 
this ; but there ’s only ten dollars more to be paid on 
that, and then the rent; and perhaps I can have one 
some time.” 

That was what he said just as he was going to bed, 
leaving Hilda and Rob alone in the kitchen. The girl 
sat quiet a few minutes. 

“I suppose I could take that out of the box?” she 
said at last. 

“ I suppose you could n’t,” answered Rob, deter- 
minedly. “ It ’ll be worth more to him to have a house 
than a coat. We ’ve made a beginning, and let’s stick 
to it through thick and thin. But I wish something 
could be done so that he could go, for he so seldom 
cares.” 

“ Rob, go in and get the coat,” said his sister 
suddenly. 

Rob obeyed. 

It was a forlorn-looking object, frayed binding, 
rubbed collar, etc., like old coats in general. Sixteen 
years before it had been a good-looking garment that 


1 12 


FA THER'S HOUSE. 


a cousin’s widow had presented to Mr. Duncan from 
her husband’s wardrobe. 

They turned it around in every light, and in each it 
seemed to present a worse aspect than the last.' Finally 
Hilda remarked musingly, “ It could be turned.” 

“ But you do n’t happen to be a tailor,” put in Rob. 

“ As Gail Hamilton says, ‘you can be whatever you 
will to be,’ ” continued Hilda. 

Hilda rose and opened a closet and drew out a 
small trunk in which were kept the few remaining 
things that had belonged to her mother. Among these 
were some remnants of her wedding cloak, and Hilda 
drew out the roll and compared it with the inside of 
the coat. 

“A little finer and blacker,” she announced, “but 
it will do for the under side of the sleeve, and not be 
noticed. Rob Duncan, it can be done. Do n’t say a 
word, but take your knife and rip carefully that frayed 
binding on one sleeve. I will do the other. Do you 
see ? Of course this lining is separate, and the wadding 
and stiffening and all are fastened on that. It wont be 
an endless job to get out the pockets, and picking 
out the button-holes will be the worst ; but Alice will 
do that in the daytime, and she ’s so careful, you know. 
It will save — how much, Rob ?” 

“ Could n’t get a decent coat for less than ten or 
twelve dollars ; and it would need a vest too ; there ’s 
three or four more.” 


NEW DUTIES. 


ii3 

“ And that ’ll buy three or four windows, or two or 
three doors for the new house, Rob.” 

“Yes, or pay five days’ work in the making. I 
tell you, ’t was a good thought for you, Hilda.” 

When Alice was told the next morning of the plan 
she entered into it heartily. It ’s worth so much in a 
house to have people who can enter with hearty inter- 
est into every hard job, and that was Alice’s character. 
“ I ’ll have ever so much time to-day to rip,” she said. 
“ That washing off my hands seems to make play of 
the work, and you know I got half my ironing done 
that same day, and my baking yesterday. There ’s 
enough to eat until Saturday; so you’ll see what 
you ’ll see.” And Alice addressed herself to the work 
with such zeal that when Hilda returned at night, she 
found every piece cleaned and laid by itself, the stitches 
picked out and the whole sponged and pressed. 

“ But how did you know how to do it so nicely ?” 

“ Why, you know I could n’t alone ; but just as I 
was ripping the last seam, who should come in but 
Lissa ; and when she heard what we were doing, she 
just had the irons on in a jiffy, and did all the cleaning 
herself. Was n’t that nice ?” 

“ I should think so. What did she say about it?” 

“Thought ’twas splendid. And she’s coming to- 
morrow evening to sew. You know father is going to 
Camden again to-morrow, and we can work the whole 
night if we want to. Is n’t everything grand ?” 

15 


Father’s House. 


FATHER'S HOUSE. 


114 

“Yes, indeed.” 

“ Lissa said, * Put the machine in good order.’ ” 

“ Rob will do that.” 

“Rob,” said his sister after supper, “it’s a long 
while since the machine was oiled. Put it in good 
order, please, will you ?” with a nod the boy understood. 

The sewing-machine was a well-worn one that Mrs. 
Duncan had got from a shoe-shop, and paid for by 
binding shoes. It could not be depended on for much 
but straight seams, but those it would do very well. 

“ I ’ve got to go down to the shop,” Rob said as he 
wiped the oil from his fingers ; “ there are some pack- 
ages to be got ready to go early in the morning, and 
some grapes to be worked over, and Mr. Miner is 
almost sick with a cold. I told him he need n’t come 
down at all, I ’d do it all ; he ’s so good about the 
papers ; so I sha’ n’t be in before nine, anyway.” 

“l am glad he ’ll trust you to do it alone,” said 
Hilda, with a proud glance at her brother. 

“ I mean to be a ‘ trusted ’ one,” answered the boy, 
drawing himself up. 

The girls were alone in their room a few minutes 
later. Hilda had been cutting the under side of the 
sleeves from her roll of pieces. 

“ Father is n’t going away at all,” Bessie announced, 
peeping out into the kitchen. “ He ’s sat down by the 
table and gone to reading.” Bessie had been let into 
the secret and was duly consequential. 


NEW DUTIES. 


5 


“We can’t sew any to-night then,” said Alice. 
“ Perhaps he would n’t notice though.” 

“ Alice,” said her sister, “ I had meant surely to go 
to prayer- meeting to-night. It’s a long while since 
I ’ve been, you know.” 

“You’re nearly always too tired,” apologized her 
sister. 

“I wasn’t too tired to go out Tuesday, and I 
ought n’t to be now. I think I ’ll go anyway. Let 
the coat rest a little. I read somewhere once that 
‘ Prayer-time was never lost time.’ I ’ll trust it, and 
when I get back perhaps I ’ll baste up the seams.” 

“ I can do that to-morrow, I think,” said Alice. 

“You can do the straight ones if you want to ; put 
the edges just even. I ’ll do the sleeves. It ’s time to 
go now.” 

The church was not very far distant, and Hilda 
was soon hastening along at the call of the last bell. 
It was, as she had said, a long time since she had 
attended this service. Somehow she seemed to have 
lost her interest or her sense of duty, but ever since 
Tuesday night she had had it in her thought to go. 

“ I wish I could see that article of which you were 
speaking,” a gentleman had said in her hearing to 
Miss Harris on that evening. 

“ I will bring it to you Thursday night at meeting,” 
Connie had answered, assuming without question that 
each would be there. 


ii6 


FATHER'S HOUSE . 


Now if this real life in which Hilda so longed to 
have a part included prayer-meetings, she must cer- 
tainly go too. And besides, she would see those girls 
there. 

She only expected to slip into a back-seat, but it 
was something to be in the same room, listen to the 
same words, and perhaps, who knows ? think the same 
thoughts with the two whom she so much admired. 
That is the way girls are led sometimes. 

But when she came to the vestry door and looked 
in, a little flurried because the bell had stopped, she 
saw that her coveted back-seat had been the aim of 
many others. Not that the room was full, but after a 
well-known fashion, each one or two coming in had 
dropped down at the near end of the slip, and there 
was no getting by. Hilda had to pass halfway up the 
aisle before she found an empty seat, and then she 
went to the farther end in a little confusion. Settling 
herself back comfortably she began to find that she 
was very tired, and the easy cushion, the shaded lights, 
and the clear voice of Mr. Agnew, as he offered the 
opening prayer, were very restful. “ After all I ’m glad 
I came,” was her thought. 

Then came the reading of a familiar hymn, but 
there was only one book in her seat and that was 
taken by others. She did n’t care, she only wanted to 
rest and enjoy. 

But then a hand from the next seat touched her 


NEW DUTIES. 


ii 7 

own, and looking down she saw a book offered for her 
sharing. She glanced quickly to the face and saw 
that she was close by Connie Harris, whose lips shaped 
a smile and a soft “good evening” to her look. It 
was complete then. A perfect little paradise did that 
plain vestry-room become to this impulsive young girl. 

She did not sing herself; it was enough to listen; 
and if during the prayers her thought wandered too often 
to that other bowed head so near her, do not decide 
too hastily that she might better have remained at 
home. Hilda, as she thought the evening over before 
she slept that night, felt ashamed and sorry that it had 
been so ; but God in his long-suffering love and pity 
turns many an imperfect motive and service to account 
in leading these strange human hearts of ours to higher 
places. Be it ours not to trample on that love, or 
presume upon that pity. 

“ It was a delightful meeting,” Hilda told Alice, 
“and I shall go again.” 

There had been a seed lodged in her heart too, the 
fruiting of which Mr. Agnew could not see, though he 
had asked for a blessing on the word that he carried to 
his people. It was at the last, and when about to dis- 
miss them, that the pastor had said, 

“ I see too many empty seats here to-night, and I 
want each of you, my friends, to strive to bring, next 
Thursday night, not only yourself but also some one 
else. Not some one who is accustomed to attend, but 


n8 


FATHERS HOUSE. 


if possible, one whose face is never seen here, and who, 
so far as we know, has no thought ever turning here ; 
for, remember, our Master came to seek and to save 
‘that which is lost,’ and the closer we follow in his foot- 
steps, the sweeter and the more precious shall be his 
‘ well done.’ ” 

As Hilda’s head pressed her pillow that night the 
words came back to her very plainly. Whom should 
she ask? Not her father, for he went more frequently 
than she. There could be no virtue in persuading 
Alice, lor she was perfectly willing to go; and Rob 
went sometimes. She thought of Kate, but Kate went 
once in a great while. What was it just then that 
brought Naomi to her mind? Was it the voice that the 
Father sends to the heart of his children when they 
are really listening ? I cannot tell. It is certain Hilda 
could not go to sleep till she had promised herself to 
make an honest and earnest effort to bring with her to 
the next prayer-meeting this lonely and apparently 
joyless woman. 

It gave the weaving-room a new look as she went 
into it the next morning, this consciousness of work for 
the Master in it. For it is wonderful how a little soul 
work glorifies the most insignificant of common places. 

“Will you speak to-day?” conscience asked her 
an indefinite number of times that morning ; and “ No,” 
Hilda said every time except the last, and then she 
changed it to “If I have a good chance I will, and 


NEW DUTIES . 


119 

have it done with,” but inwardly she hoped she would 
not. But she did. God often helps by his providence 
one who wishes to do any real service for him. 

Anna Morrison was sick at noon and went away, 
and after their lunch Kate seemed to find anything but 
good company in that corner, for she soon went off to 
the spinning-room to seek better. Naomi and Hilda 
were left alone. The girl looked at the strong im- 
passive face, whose eyes seemed to be searching for 
something in the water outside, with a sinking heart. 
How would it be possible to influence her? 

But time was passing. “Naomi,” she said at last. 

The woman turned toward her. 

“Naomi, did you ever go to prayer-meeting?” 

Was she mistaken, or was there a sudden flash 
over the still face, and a quiver of the firm lips? She 
waited for the answer. “Yes, I have been.” 

“And will you go with me next Thursday night?” 
eagerly. 

“What do you ask me for?” said Naomi. 

“ Mr. Agnew asked us last night to bring some one 
with us the next time, and I thought of you, and that 
perhaps you would like to go with me.” 

“No, no, girl, it’s too long now. It isn’t likely I 
can,” was the reply. The woman’s face was turned 
again to the window, and she said nothing more. 
Neither did Hilda; it was just as she had expected. 

“ You are not angry with me for asking you, are 


20 


FATHER'S HOUSE . 


you, Naomi?” she said as the sharp bell began its 
clangor. 

“No,” answered the woman, “but what put it into 
your head, girl, to ask me?” 

“God, I suppose.” Hilda spoke the first thing 
that came into her heart, and then stopped. And so she 
supposed it had ended. But that afternoon she noted 
that several times Naomi was standing quiet a moment 
among the noisy looms, as though her thoughts were 
many miles away ; and once, an unknown thing in her 
history there, she had noticed how pale one of the 
girls was looking and offered to take two looms for an 
hour and let her go and sit by the river window and 
rest, and Hilda did the same. 

But the petition that Naomi might yet be per- 
suaded to go, made a part of Hilda’s evening prayer, 
though her faith may not even have equalled the 
“mustard-seed.” 

“After all,” she said to Alice that night, “I am not 
sure but there is work enough even in a factory to 
satisfy any one.” 


ALL ABOUT AN OLD COAT. 


121 


CHAPTER VIII. 

ALL ABOUT AN OLD COAT. 

Hilda had been a little saving of herself through 
the day, that is, she had rested when occasion per- 
mitted, between the piecing of fractious threads and 
the changing of shuttles. She was not in the habit of 
doing this, but she remembered there was an evening 
of work before her, and was anxious to be in trim for it. 

She found Alice had everything in readiness, and 
even before their supper was finished, Lissa’s tap was 
heard at the door. Many hands made light work with 
the dishes, and Hilda soon took her place at the 
machine, while Alice became aid in general. The 
edges of the long seams had been carefully fitted and 
basted by Alice, and it was short work to stitch them 
up. Then while Lissa carefully put in the pockets, 
Alice bound the sleeves, and Hilda fitted a new out- 
side to the collar, which was too soiled for turning. 

“I wonder what father will say if it looks nice,” 
said Hilda in one of her hurried pauses. 

“ Wont he be pleased though !” said Alice. 

“ It looks as though it might amount to something 
decent, doesn’t it, Lissa?” asked Hilda anxiously. 

“Almost as good as new; ay, better,” replied Lissa, 
16 


Father’s House. 


122 


FATHER'S HOUSE . 


“for it’ll have the trick of the home fingers in it, and 
that ’s a deal to a poor man.” 

“I don’t see though,” continued Hilda, “how I 
was ever bold enough to put the knife in it at first. 
Just think if I had spoiled it entirely.” 

“ There must be ventures made sometimes, or there 
would never be a market made,” answered Lissa. 

“I know I shouldn’t be the one to make them 
though,” said Alice. 

“Nay,” responded Lissa, “some are better fitted 
for the ingleside than the storms and winds. And 
they’re a blessing too,” she added, with a smile for 
the gentle girl who was a great favorite with Lissa. 

“I wonder,” mused Hilda a moment later, “if this 
old coat could talk, what stories it would tell. How 
curious if clothes could feel what was going on inside ; 
in the heart I mean.” 

“I remember well the day it came home,” said 
Lissa. 

“Oh, do you? Do tell us about it,” both girls 
exclaimed eagerly. 

“Yes, I chanced to be here that day when the 
expressman left it at the door. It was Rob there was 
the wee one, and your mother had him in her arms- 
She sat him down quick in the cradle and her face 
lighted all over with joy. ‘ Of all things it ’s just 
what Wesley’s been longing for and I ’ve been asking 
the good Lord to give,’ she said, ‘and someway, Lissa, 


ALL ABOUT AN OLD COAT. 


123 


I knew he would.’ You see, bairns, she was fearsome 
that if his clothes grew so stringy-like he ’d neglect the 
kirk, and that ’s the beginning of a down-hill road she 
did not care to see his feet upon ; and I could see there 
was a great burden lifted off her.” 

“Wasn’t I the best and the prettiest baby that ever 
grew, Lissa?” asked Rob mischievously. 

“ The looks of you were passable, though you was 
nothing to boast of ; but your good temper has all been 
an aftergrowth, for you was a sore trial to the patience 
of all in those days,” was the reply that gave his 
sisters the laugh on him. 

“Where did we live then?” asked Hilda. 

“ In the little brown house behind the two elms at 
the end of the street. Your mother loved that place 
like no other, she always said, and your father thought 
to buy it in those days ; but the Lord willed it not.” 

The girls knew well what place was meant, and in 
the heart of one of them a new thought found place, to 
be looked after at some future day. 

“ Do you really believe, Lissa,” asked Rob, “ that 
the Lord wills we shall have things or not, or do you 
think he lets us have a word in the matter?” 

“Both,” answered Lissa promptly, thus steering 
clear of this threatening Scylla and Charybdis of doc- 
trine. “Now go down, like a good boy, and get a 
skein of linen thread ; this has no strain to it at all.” 

“I wonder,” broke out Hilda again presently, 


124 


FATHER'S HOUSE. 


“how it would seem not to have to think about such 
things as dress. I mean, if a coat were wanted, to go 
and order just such a one as suited ; not to have to 
make over dresses, and always to wear whole shoes,” 
with a grimace toward her own patched though well- 
blacked boot. 

“ There are not many such, lass,” replied Lissa. 
“The thinking must come in somewhere. We’re not 
just like the lilies of the field, nor the fowls of the air.” 

“Well, I mean only pleasant thinking, such as 
Connie Harris has, for instance.” 

“It’s very fine, truly; but then there are compen- 
sations with you after all.” 

“ Such as what, Lissa ?” 

“No tailor could get such a real warm-through 
smile as the father will give you, bairns, for the stitches 
you ’re taking for his comfort now. And then, though 
my Miss Connie isn’t one of them, I ’m thinking it’s a 
sad thing for many that never know what ’s the power 
in them because of lack of trial. The Father above 
knows the best for us, after all.” 

“I know, but I ’ve often wished he thought it best 
to try me with prosperity. I suppose that ’s wrong, 
but it’s true. Now do n’t think that I’m dissatisfied 
and unhappy, and all that, for I ’m not; and just now 
I ’ve got something in my head that keeps me happy 
all the time. We must tell Lissa all about it some 
day, Alice; not to-night. But still I ’d just like to see 


ALL ABOUT AN OLD COAT. 


125 


how it would feel to wake up some morning and think — 
no, forget entirely that there was any such thing as 
a factory ; not have a thing laid out for me, but just 
plan what to do all day long to spend the time.” 

“And what would you plan, lass?” asked Lissa a 
little anxiously. 

“ Well, I think,” began Hilda, and then as a yawn 
interrupted her, ended with a laugh and, “I believe the 
first thing I would do would be to go to sleep and 
sleep all day long.” 

They all laughed heartily at the unromantic conclu- 
sion, and then, finding that their work was ready for 
pressing, were busy with hot irons and the machine 
again. Then the two parts, outside and inside, were 
ready to be put together, and of course as they had 
jogged along in company for many a year, that was 
not a difficult matter. They were soon seated again 
with needles and thread to baste the braid around the 
edge, when a tap at the door was met by a “ come in ” 
from Hilda, who supposed it was some neighbor well 
used to that custom. 

What was her surprise to see the door open upon 
Connie Harris and Margie Trask. 

To say that for a minute Hilda was “put out” 
would be a mild way of expressing it. To be sure she 
had had dreams of Connie Harris’ coming in some 
day; but it had been differently planned from this. 
Everything was to be in perfect order, all the members 


126 


FATHER'S HOUSE. 


of the family conveniently disposed off elsewhere, and 
herself sitting with some book in hand, her school prize 
of Tennyson perhaps. Their talk should at once drift 
into poetry and song, and she would quote her favorite 
passages from “In Memoriam,” and find the answering 
chord in this more cultured girl whom her fancy 
invested with every perfection. Perhaps even that 
hand, whose light touch on her arm that night in 
the prayer-meeting had so thrilled her, might even be 
laid on her again in sympathetic understanding. Who 
could tell? 

Now, everything was as far as possible from her 
fancies. The small kitchen was too warm, because of 
the fire to heat the irons ; the table set in the middle of 
the room was covered with work and cuttings, and a 
liberal share was strewed about the floor. Alice had 
been too busy that day to remember her lamps, and 
the untrimmed wick had sent a black streak up the 
chimney not at all conducive to its good looks. 

The room was so full, the work itself so very pov- 
erty-speaking, that for an instant Hilda’s good sense 
nearly deserted her, and I am not sure but she would 
really have made quite a simpleton of herself, if her 
unexpected callers had not proved their own ladyhood 
at once. 

“Good evening, Miss Duncan.” Connie was the 
first to speak, coming forward and offering her hand. 
“ Please excuse our late call, but we learned that Lissa 


ALL ABOUT AN OLD COAT. 127 

was here, and as we have unexpected company for 
breakfast, mamma wanted to send a message to her.” 

“And as we were meaning to come and see you 
some time,” added Margie, “we gladly seized this 
opportunity for an excuse.” 

By this time Hilda was herself again. “ I am very 
glad to see you for any reason,” she said simply, 
clearing a chair of pieces at the same time. “We are 
not always so full here, but to-night is an uncommonly 
busy one.” 

Her manner was as quiet and ladylike now, as 
she stood there with the pink spots coming and going 
in her cheeks, as that of any one could be. Lissa 
looked at her with a new admiration. 

“ Mamma thought she would like some fresh fish 
for breakfast, Lissa,” said Connie. 

“ I will go out then now, before the market is 
closed,” said the woman. 

“ We will wait for you then. Indeed, we are going 
to stay and make our call now, if we are not trespass- 
ing too much on Miss Duncan’s time.” 

“ I shall be glad to have you; my work can wait,” 
said Hilda. 

“No, indeed,” exclaimed Margie, “I never can bear 
to stop when I am hurrying with sewing. Go right 
on, please. You know, when I turned that gray dress 
of mine, Connie, I nearly sent everybody out of the 
house, I hurried so. Mamma said she hoped I ’d 


128 


FATHER'S HOUSE. 


be careful enough of my clothes to make such repairs 
few and far between, I made a such a commotion.” 

Could any tact have been finer than that allusion to 
repairs ? Hilda’s needle was soon moving again along 
the braid as rapidly as before the advent of callers. 

“ How good this warm room seems,” said Connie, 
“it is quite chilly out of doors. And what a lovely 
fuschia!” noticing Alice’s one pet plant that was re- 
paying her abundant care by a profusion of blossoms. 
“Is it yours, Miss Duncan?” 

“ It. is my sister Alice’s, her one pet and darling.” 

“You must be fond of it to make it so thrifty,” said 
Connie, going over to it. 

“ I do dearly love it,” was Alice’s reply. “ I had 
another, a colored-leaf geranium with pink blossoms, 
and it had several buds ; but a few weeks ago, Mrs. 
Phail’s little boy knocked it off the window and broke 
it all to pieces.” 

“ Oh, that was too bad. But I have that kind, and 
I have n’t this ; so we ’ll make an exchange of slips if 
you will.” 

“ I should be very glad to do so,” said Alice eager- 
ly, “ I was so sorry about mine.” 

“Miss Duncan,” asked Connie, “do you remember 
what beautiful geraniums our teacher, Miss Frank, 
used to have ?” 

“Yes, indeed,” replied Hilda, “I always think of 
her with a flower at her throat.” 


\ 


ALL ABOUT AN OLD COAT. 129 

“That’s a pleasant association, certainly, to leave 
for a memory ; I know I used to love to carry flowers 
to her,” said Connie. “ I remember mamma had a 
very choice plant sent to her once from Panama. It 
had one bud only, and we all waited with great anxiety 
to see it open. Papa and mamma chanced to be away 
on a visit when it did open, and I picked the prize and 
carried it at once to my teacher.” 

“What did she say ?” asked Hilda. 

“Why, she knew what a treasure it was, and kept 
it carefully until night and then carried it to mamma, who 
had come home. But I remember the lecture Lissa 
read me at noon ; do you, Lissa?” she said appealing to 
the woman who had returned from her shopping and 
taken up her needle again. 

“I don’t mind the lecture in special, Miss Connie, 
but I mind well the occasion.” 

“ Oh, of course,” said Connie mischievously ; “ how 
should I expect Lissa to remember that one in special 
among the many she has favored me with ?” 

“And that’s the reason, miss, you’re no so ill- 
favored now as you might be,” returned Lissa respect- 
fully, a loving smile lighting up her rugged features. 

“And, wonder of wonders,” continued the girl 
merrily, “there’s a compliment from Lissa! What 
may I not yet come to ? Did you ever know of one 
before, Margie?” 

“Nay,” put in Lissa, and her face had assumed its 

17 


Father’s House. 


FATHER’S HOUSE. 


130 

gravity again, “and I’m some fearsome that you’re 
too high-headed for it the night. Fair words fit best 
in the morning; they nerve them to keep the day 
braw and shining.” 

“Never mind, Lissa, I’ll keep mine over until the 
morning. Now, Miss Duncan, I don’t want to seem 
inquisitive, but I do want to ask if I may know what 
you are all so busy upon, and see if I cannot help 
too.” 

“We’re turning an old coat of my father’s, Miss 
Harris, or rather making the experiment,” answered 
Hilda promptly, though her face confessed to a blush 
also. 

“Turning a real man’s coat!” exclaimed Margie. 
“Why, can you do that, Hilda Duncan?” 

“That remains to be proved yet,” answered Hilda. 
“ I do n’t think I could have done it, for all I started 
out brave enough, if Lissa had not taken hold and 
helped me.” 

The girls were close around it now. 

“Just see, Margie, how nice it is going to look. 
Why, it will be almost as good as new,” said Connie. 

“ And how much your father will think of it,” added 
Margie. 

“You see,” said Hilda boldly, “the case was just 
this: the coat was terribly shabby. Father must have 
a new overcoat, and he could not have both, and I 
wanted him to go to the minister’s sociables. Of course 


ALL ABOUT AN OLD COAT. 


131 

he could not wear an overcoat there; so this is the 
only way out.” 

“ Does he know it ?” asked Connie. 

“No, not yet.” 

“ I ’d like to be a mouse under the table to see him 
when you give it to him, Miss Duncan,” said Margie ; 
“and,” she added quickly, “I think it must be very 
nice to do these really necessary things for others, to 
see the home grow pleasant, to buy dishes and stove- 
ware and such commonplace things that could n’t real- 
ly be had if I did not get them. That makes you feel 
really worth something. And you need n’t laugh ; I ’ve 
a perfect passion for all kinds of kettles and spiders 
and toasting irons, and could stay in a crockery or tin 
store all day. I always did think a tin pedler was 
the one man to be envied.” 

“And I always longed for a loghouse in the wil- 
derness,” said Connie, “ with vines and stumps and a 
cool spring near.” 

“But you forget, Miss Trask, that earning the 
money does n’t leave much time for books and music 
and rides,” said Hilda. 

“No, I know. O dear, what a mixed-up world 
this is, and what a little bit of a corner any of us sweep, 
after all,” returned Margie. 

“ It ’s not the muckle, but the quality of the sweep- 
ing the Lord will inquire about,” said Lissa reverently. 

“Yes, I know; but I must say that when I stand 


132 


FATHER'S HOUSE. 


and see the great quantities of unswept places every- 
where about me, I feel very much like shaking my 
broom out, and raising such a cloud of dust as should 
get into some people’s eyes and start them up,” 

“You can’t be looking very close at your own 
corner at the same time,” said Lissa quietly. 

“ That ’s true, Lissa ; I ’ll remember that. I pre- 
sume there ’s enough of my own to do, and really I 
do n’t seem to be of much use in the world. How I 
used to dream when I was a school-girl. I was going 
to be a perfect Lady Bountiful, with hands and time 
and thought at the disposal of all who needed; and 
how I have dropped down from my aspirations. I 
wake up in the morning with nothing in particular 
before me” — Hilda smiled up at Lissa — “and I take 
the day just as it comes ; a little work, a little society 
duty, a great deal of nothing in particular. If there 
was a club called the ‘Amount to Nothings,’ I ’d stand 
at the head.” 

Connie laughed merrily, but this was a revelation 
to Hilda. Could it be possible that this favored girl 
had just the same dissatisfaction about what her life 
amounted to as herself? There was a moment of 
silence and then Connie took up the word. 

“ Something that I read from an old writer, Margie, 
has helped me. He said that God never wanted us to 
be anxious about our work, any more than about the 
morrow. He would send both in due time.” 


ALL ABOUT AN OLD COAT. 


133 


“But surely we ought to be looking and doing,” 
said Hilda. 

“ But not fretting, children. ‘ Leave the case to me,’ 
the Lord says ; and his words bide,” said Lissa. 

“Oh, that’s good,” exclaimed Hilda involuntarily. 

“You know all about the longing to be doing 
something then ?” said Connie in a low tone with her 
quick smile. 

“You can’t know how much, for you see I’ve no 
time,” replied Hilda. 

Lissa overheard and smiled. “ I think the Lord’s 
leading you all, bairns,” she said in her strong assured 
tones, “ and you may trust him. Now, Hilda, stitch in 
these sleeves and sew this braid on, and let me press 
them, and then it’ll be very nearly done. You’ll be 
out at four on the morrow, and can work the button- 
holes over; and Alice will have the buttons on, and 
the task will be finished in time for the Sunday.” 

There was a half hour more of busy work, and then 
the nearly renovated garment was held up and admired 
by several interested girls. Hilda found that her 
machine would not stitch the braid nicely enough, so 
that was left for a tailoress who lived in the same house,' 
and who said she would do it the next morning. 

Then Lissa folded up the coat and hurried her 
young ladies home. 


134 


FATHER'S HOUSE. 


CHAPTER IX. 

GIVING AND GETTING. 

Sunday morning, while Mr. Duncan was out, Rob 
hung the coat on its nail, and they all waited anxiously 
to have it found. The girls were dressed and out in 
the kitchen, and still their father sat there reading a 
Sunday-school book that one of the children had laid 
down. 

“Why, aren’t you going to church, father?” asked 
Hilda, for it was seldom that he missed the morning 
service. “ The first bell has n’t rung. But you must 
go to-day, because Alice can’t. She must surely get 
some shoes to-morrow.” 

Mr. Duncan began to get ready, and the children 
waited with what patience they could, and a good deal 
of whispering and laughing. 

He was surprised and pleased enough when he did 
find the coat, to satisfy them all. And it looked very 
well on him too. Hilda saw him several times during 
church glance at the sleeves, or feel of the smoothly- 
stitched braid. 

Now this was a great lesson in the economies of 
life to these girls. Not that they turned many coats 


* 

























' 


















































































GIVING AND GETTING. 


135 


afterward, but it gave them more confidence in what 
they could do, and led them in many things to find out 
the possibilities and utmost resources of every posses- 
sion they had; and a “penny saved ” in such ways “ is 
a penny earned.” 

But neither the coat nor any of the inmates of that 
plain home went to the next minister’s evening. It 
proved very stormy outside, and the good fire in the 
kitchen stove seemed very cheerful. 

“ I saw Dick Rainor on the street to-night,” said 
Rob ; “ he had a volume of English history under his 
arm, and said he had read six books of history this 
past year.” 

“Does he have any more time than you?” asked 
Hilda. 

“Not much ; I think he never goes to the office 
evenings though.” 

“ Let us read something,” said Hilda. 

“Well, I am willing; but the bother is what to read. 
I suppose we could get books from the library.” 

“I’ll find out,” said Hilda. “There’s the United 
States History I used to study in school. Did you 
ever read that?” 

“No.” 

“Let’s begin on that then; I ’ll be glad to refresh 
my memory. And Saturday I ’ll get a ticket for six 
months in the library, and we will read a little anyway.” 

And she did, and they kept their intention better 


136 


FATHERS HOUSE. 


than most such resolves are kept. Sometimes they 
had history and sometimes science, such books as were 
spoken of in the lectures or as Mr. Agnew recom- 
mended. 

“If I ever get to be a rich man,” Rob said one day, 
“ I sha’ n’t make the mistake of thinking the moon is 
made of green cheese, at all events. I am glad to 
know something, and I don’t mind about the papers 
half so much now. I can hear enough of the news in 
the store all day, and what’s the use of wasting my 
time reading them over ?” 

But that was months after this time. 

When Mr. Agnew gave out on Sabbath the notice 
of the prayer-meeting, Hilda remembered Naomi ; but 
after that the matter was forgotten, until Thursday 
night, as the great wheel stopped and the noisy ma- 
chinery trembled into stillness, when as she was taking 
off her outer sleeves and tidying herself a little, she felt 
a touch on her arm and turning saw Naomi at her side, 
with a hesitant expression on her face new to Hilda. 

“What is it?” 

“ I come to say that if you mean it yet, I ’ll go.” 

A quick memory came to prevent the involuntary 
expression of surprise. “ Well, I am glad,” she said, 
but the woman missed the heartiness. 

“ Perhaps you a’ n’t going ?” she queried. 

“ Oh, yes, I am,” said Hilda, “ and I will come for 


you. 


GIVING AND GETTING. 


137 


“Oh no, no indeed; I ’ll be near your door before 
the bell rings, and you will find me there.” 

“Why, come right in, Naomi; we’ll be glad to 
see you.” 

But Naomi only repeated, “I’ll be at your door,” 
and walked away. 

Hilda went home really a little sorry that her 
invitation had been accepted. She did not care much 
for Naomi, and she forgot that the Master did. She 
was not in a “good fit” that evening. She had been 
very busy all the week with hands as well as mind. 
While her feet had been stepping to and fro all that 
day, she had made many plans for the future ; plans in 
which people should realize her worth and her work, 
in the new home that was to be. Naomi was common, 
even coarse-looking. How would it seem to have Con- 
nie Harris sit near her to-night and see her company ? 

Of course, in such a mood her welcome of Naomi 
was a scant one, and they walked almost in silence to 
the vestry. They were early enough to find nearly all 
the seats empty, and into the one nearest the door Hil- 
da led her companion, and seated her by the wall. 

She watched the people come in with very little in- 
terest, except when Connie and two other ladies passed 
up the aisle nearly to the front. She paid but little 
heed to the hymns, and less to the opening prayer. 
Even the word read left but faint memory within, and 
Mr. Agnew’s spoken word fared nearly the same. 

18 


Father’s House. 


138 


FATHER'S HOUSE . 


She wondered what Naomi, sitting there a little in 
the shadow, was thinking of ; but she did not ask any 
help for her. 

The final hymn was sung, and Hilda and her com- 
panion hastened out. 

“ But this is out of your way,” Hilda said, as Nao- 
mi turned up her street. 

“ No; but I am going to the corner.” 

“ But wont you be afraid to go home alone ? Let 
me get Rob and go with you.” 

“,No,” said the woman decidedly. 

“ I am much obliged to you, Naomi, for going,” said 
Hilda, as they came to her corner. 

Naomi made no reply, but strode away into the 
cloudy darkness, and Hilda went in to forget all about 
her. 

The next morning she found her at her place, silent, 
gloomy as ever, and she ventured not a word about 
the meeting, over which she had not commenced any 
repentance for her heedless part. To account for the 
change in Hilda’s feelings, we must say she was not 
spending much time in prayer these days. Head and 
heart had seemed to be filled with the idea of work and 
with ambitious dreams during the past week. 

The next Sabbath night, after church service, she 
had a surprise to furnish food for further dreaming. 
Connie Harris met her in the vestibule. “ I want you 
to come and spend to-morrow evening quietly with me; 


GIVING AND GETTING. 


139 


will you?” she asked. “ I am going away from home 
on Wednesday to be gone several weeks; so come, 
please.” 

Hilda gladly promised. The next day was the lon- 
gest one she had ever experienced ; but when the work 
was really done she would have been glad to set back 
the clock several hours, so as to have longer the pleas- 
ure of expectation. 

But the twilight would slip away, and Rob stood 
impatiently waiting to escort her. 

“ Lissa will see you safe home,” Connie had said, 
and Rob rejoiced at hearing it. He left his sister at 
the iron gate, and went away whistling, like a careless, 
good-natured boy as he was. 

Hilda looked up the walk a little hesitatingly. The 
hall door was open, and a bright light streamed out, 
and there were lighted rooms on both sides, and long 
windows just giving glimpses of color and snatches of 
sound. 

But as she neared the steps some one rose from one 
of the willow chairs and came forward, and she heard 
Connie’s voice: “ This is Hilda Duncan, I think. I am 
glad to see you. Are you chilly?” 

“ Not at all,” said Hilda. 

“ Then sit down here a little and see how pretty the 
village looks, with its lights twinkling and trembling 
like stars.” 

Hilda took the seat offered and sank back in con- 


140 


FATHER'S HOUSE. 


tent. She had never been quite so near the heart of 
what she thought really delightful things as at this mo- 
ment. When a little girl she had been in at the back 
doors of nice houses and caught glimpses of fine par- 
lors, but she had never sat down in parlor or piazza as 
an invited caller before. She gave herself .up to its 
enjoyment. 

“ I ’ll make believe it ’s all a part of every day,” she 
said to herself. Aloud she said, “ It looks like a pic- 
ture. How beautiful it must be in the daytime to look 
off to the mountains !” 

“ I had a friend here a while ago who had never 
seen mountains before, and I could scarcely keep her 
out of sight of these.” 

“How many things there are in the world we never 
see,” remarked Hilda. 

“ That is true. I was up on the White Mountains 
last year, and realized then how much there was of 
which I had not dreamed, of height and grandeur and 
wonder.” 

“ Oh, tell me all about it,” exclaimed Hilda. 

Now inwardly Connie was giving herself a vigorous 
scolding, for she had determined not to speak one word 
of things that were not common to the two lives, forget- 
ting, as many do, that because the surroundings of an- 
other’s life are common and dull, is often all the more 
reason why we may acceptably communicate our fresh- 
er and brighter experiences. 


GIVING AND GETTING. 141 

For a whole hour now Hilda listened to the glow- 
ing description of the places of which she had only read 
before. She saw the mighty flood of Niagara and the 
wild beauty of Watkins’ Glen, as well as the mountains 
and the city; and how she enjoyed it no one can know. 
In her easy-chair, with the twinkling lights below, the 
softened tones of the piano, where Connie’s younger 
sister was practising, from within, rest and refreshment 
stole over her weary frame, while her mind took in as 
a very pleasant tale the graphic descriptions of her 
companion. 

She arose almost with a sigh when Connie exclaim- 
ed, “ But what a time I have been holding forth ! and I 
want you to come up to my room and see my books. 
I am such a gossip when I get. started, there is no stop 
to my tongue.” 

As they passed through the hall, Hilda looked into 
the pleasant rooms with pictures and knicknacks on 
every hand ; but there were callers in each, and they 
did not go in. They met the sweet face of Mrs. Harris 
on the stairs. 

“ I just noticed, a few minutes since,” she said, “ that 
you were sitting out on the piazza, and was coming to 
tell you that I feared the evening was too cool for such 
an indulgence. And this,” she added, “ is Hilda Dun- 
can, I suppose. I used to know your mother, Miss 
Hilda, and I see a resemblance in you to her. I hope 
you will make as good a woman as she was.” 


142 


FATHER'S HOUSE. 


Tears sprang to the young girl’s eyes “I am not 
good at all, Mrs. Harris,” she said, “and I am afraid 
I ’m not at all like her.” 

“ Well, my child, we can always grow, you know ; 
what a comfort that is. Daughter, there is a fresh bas- 
ket of peaches your father sent home. I will send 
some up to your room.” 

“Thank you, mother. You will find one to wel- 
come them, at least.” 

Hilda stopped in the upper hall before a large copy 
of the Laocoon. 

“ Do you know what that is ?” asked Connie. 

“ No ; what a terrible picture !” 

“ It is a copy of the Laocoon.” 

“ I know nothing of such things, you know,” said 
Hilda simply. 

“Well, there’s great pleasure in learning about 
them for the first time.” 

“ My pleasure almost all lies before me, then,” was 
the answer. 

“ Oh, you are not so ignorant, Hilda ; you ’ve gath- 
ered a great deal. I remember we had one girl at 
school who had been entirely educated by her father, 
a minister. It was curious how her knowledge would 
come out. I used to think it was like digging a little 
canal between lakes. When the teacher had made the 
opening there would be such a perfect flood of infor- 
mation, and then some new point would be wanted.” 


GIVING AND GETTING. 


T 43 


“ The lakes would be all mudpuddles in my head, 
I fear,” laughed Hilda ; “ but did n’t you enjoy board- 
ing-school ?” 

“ Indeed I did, every day of it.” 

“ I always thought it must be very pleasant.” 

“ I liked it, but there were plenty of homesick and 
discontented girls always.” 

“ Some people are never contented, any way,” re- 
marked Hilda. “ There ’s old Mrs. Clark in our house; 
if it rains, she ’s sure to want it pleasant ; and if the sun 
shines, she ’s certain the world is going to dry up. If 
people laugh, they ’d better be thinking of their sins or 
the sins of their grandfathers ; and if they are sober, 
there ’s no use in looking like a cloud.” 

Connie was silent while Hilda was turning over the 
leaves of an album, for they have been this long time 
cosily seated in Connie’s beautiful room. Finally Hilda 
looked up questioningly. 

“ I was thinking,” said Connie, “ how many ways 
of getting an education there are. You see, the faults 
of this old lady at your house are one of your educa- 
ting influences.” 

“ And my faults are the help of some one else,” re- 
joined Hilda; “ I see.” 

“ I was not thinking of that,” replied Connie smi- 
ling, “ though I suppose we may all be helpful to oth- 
ers in that way. Let me tell you about that girl,” she 
added, as Hilda turned over a leaf. And then followed 


144 


FATHER'S HOUSE. 


boarding-school reminiscences that were perfect fairy- 
tales to Hilda. 

And so they drifted on from one subject to another. 
Connie showed her pieces of fancy-work, and they 
looked over an extract-book. It was one item in this, 
entitled “ My Home,” and giving a description of a 
pleasant cottage home, that drew Hilda out. “ I won- 
der if mine will be like that,” she said. 

“Your what? Home? Are you going to have 
one?” 

“ I am going to try.” 

“ Why, what do you mean ? A real home ?” 

“ As real a house as boards and mortar can make,” 
answered Hilda laughing. 

“ Oh, please tell me all about it,” exclaimed Con- 
nie eagerly. “ I ’ve been talking all the evening, and 
it ’s your turn now.” 

And Hilda could not have found a more enthusi- 
astic listener anywhere, for with all her dainty ways 
she was a very practical worker; that she inherited 
from the good judge, her father. Very soon she came 
to the important points. 

*' You ’ll do it, and it ’ll be grand. How much have 
you towards it now ?” 

“About twenty dollars, I believe, or twenty-five. 
You know we have only just commenced, and Rob 
needs a good many things just now, so he can’t help 
much ; by-and-by he will.” 


GIVING AND GETTING. 


145 


“ And your father does not know it?” 

“ Oh, no ; I would n’t have him for anything. I 
only hope he will live to see the deed.” 

“ He will, I think. Hilda, do you pray over this ?” 

“ Yes, I have a little.” 

“ Every day, I mean — all the time ?” 

“ I am afraid I forget it sometimes ; and I am not 
quite sure, any way, whether God cares.” 

“ Oh-, he does. I believe in prayer, and if I were 
you I would ask for it every day. I think Lissa taught 
me my faith in the first place. She would say to you 
now the first thing, ‘ Well, bairn, tell the good Lord all 
about it, and if he sees it ’s right and best for you, he ’ll 
bring you through.’ ” 

“ And she believes it, too ?” said Hilda. 

“Yes, she does. And I have always thought it 
must be very pleasant to be doing some work that 
seemed more than you could do of yourself, and to go 
to him and see how he helps along. Lissa taught me 
that, too. She tells of so many works carried on in 
that way.” 

“ But those are works of charity.” 

“Not always ; and I am sure we are right to try to 
make others happy — in a right way, of course ; it was 
what the Master did ; and wont this make your father 
happy ?” 

“ I hope so.” 

“ Then it seems to me you are right to try for it, 

19 


Father’s House. 


146 


FATHER'S HOUSE. 


and I ’d ask every day ; and you ’ll get help over the 
hard places. And I think, too, asking God’s help in a 
work makes us more careful to do our part of it as he 
would have us.” 

“ But it seems as though he would get tired of hear- 
ing about such a little thing.” 

“ It is not a small thing to you, and our Saviour 
was never weary of helping others while on earth. He 
fed the hungry and quieted the waves. He sat on the 
well and talked with the poor woman. He was like a 
brother to every one. Oh, would n’t it be grand to live 
just such a life ?” 

“Yes, but we cannot — not I at least;” and there 
flashed into her mind at that moment, why she could 
not tell, a remembrance of her spirit and manner toward 
Naomi that last Thursday night. 

“No one can, perfectly; but we can follow,” said 
Connie ; and then the peaches came as an interruption 
and the sober words were not again taken up. But 
just as Hilda was saying she must be going, she 
chanced to see a pair of baby socks lying on the table. 

“Alice used to knit these little shoes,” she said. 

“ Did she ? I bought those in the city some weeks 
since, and intend to carry them to a little cousin where 
I am going to visit, up in the country.” 

“You are going on Wednesday?” 

“ Yes ; my father has an old auntie on a farm where 
I used to enjoy visiting. I have promised her a long 


GIVING AND GETTING. 


147 


visit for some time, and now seems to be the opportu- 
nity. My cousin is married and has a baby boy. I 
wanted a pink pair to go with this blue, but this was 
all they had.” 

“ I think they are very pretty,” said Hilda. 

“ They are ; and do you say Alice makes them ?” 

“She learned of a French woman who lived near 
us once, and she made two pairs for Christmas pres- 
ents. The materials do n’t cost much, you know, and 
she is very quick with her fingers.” 

“Well now, Hilda, why do n’t you get her to make 
some to sell? You said she wanted so much to help 
on the new house. Here it is almost Christmas, and 
she could sell them easily enough. I ’ll engage six 
pairs, two pink, two white, and two blue. Will you?” 

“Alice will go wild with joy. She’s so anxious to 
help. What a thought for you.” 

“ Ohj that ’s pure selfishness ; I ’m too busy to knit 
them myself, and am very glad to know where I can 
get them. Now, gopd-night, and come again after I 
get home;” and standing on the upper stair Connie 
bent her pretty head and kissed the face below, as 
Hilda had only dreamed of her doing before. 

And then she went down the stairs and home under 
Lissa’s care, and in all her life there had never been an 
evening of such happiness. 


148 


FA THERMS HOUSE. 


CHAPTER X. 

A JOURNEY AND A VISIT. 

The next day two things happened in Hilda’s life. 
It was announced in the mill that on account of needed 
repairs the works would stop after Saturday for two 
weeks. Hilda had always before hailed such an an- 
nouncement with delight, but this time there were two 
sides to consider. 

“ I hardly know how to give up so much time on 
the new house,” she said to Rob, who was sent to the 
factory that afternoon on an errand. 

When she went home that night, she went out of 
her way to get the yarn for Alice, who had entered 
with all possible enthusiasm into the plan to help fill 
the family purse ; so her father reached home first, and 
Hilda found him just opening a sheet of paper covered 
with cramped, old-fashioned characters. 

“Whom can it be from?” she asked, for letters 
were rare visitants in their home. 

“ Father said he thought it was from Aunt Rachel,” 
said Alice. 

Aunt Rachel was the only aunt left to their father, 

and she was mother-in-law to the cousin who had 

* 

given the coat to him. 


A JOURNEY AND A VISIT. 149 

“What does she say, father?” asked Hilda, after 
waiting as long as her patience would allow. 

“ She says it ’s a long time since she has written to 
or heard from us; that she is growing old as fast as 
anybody, and so on; and here at the close she says, 
she thinks it likely that the baby that came to see her 
once is large enough now to travel up there alone, and 
she wishes she would come and let her see if she has 
changed any. That’s you, Hilda. Your mother and 
I took you up there once, and you learned to walk off 
alone while* we were there, and Aunt Rachel don’t 
forget that.” 

“ Oh, how I wish you could go, Hilda,” said Alice, 
kind as usual. 

“Why, she can,” cried Rob; “what’s to hinder? 
Here is a two weeks’ vacation on purpose.” 

As soon as the others heard that, their minds were 
made up at once, but not Hilda’s. 

“You really need a change,” said Alice to her when 
they were alone. 

“ No more than you do yourself.” 

“Yes; there is not the sameness in my work that 
there is to yours.” 

“ But I really cannot afford it, Alice. If I stay at 
home I can do the work and you can knit your socks, 
and I c^p learn also, and then the time will not be lost 
toward the house.” 

But Alice shook her head. “ I shall not teach you 


ISO 


FATHER'S HOUSE. 


how to knit them; so there! I am determined you 
shall go.” 

And she carried her point, so the letter was sent 
naming the next Tuesday as the day for Hilda’s 
arrival, and in spite of her prudent plans she had to 
confess to a thrill of decided pleasure when the enve- 
lope was sealed and carried off in triumph by Rob. 

Then there never was such a delightful hurry as in 
that little kitchen on Monday. It proved to be a 
capital “ drying-day,” and even Bessie wanted to help 
in the ironing. 

“ Put in all your clothes, Alice, and a bed-quilt or 
two ; then perhaps things will not dance around in the 
trunk like peas in a drum,” remarked Hilda. 

“The trunk is rather large,” assented Alice, “but 
it ’s all we have ; and you ’ll have room, too, to bring 
back the ferns you have promised me,” she added. 

“ Yes, and you can put in one or two pine-trees for 
me,” suggested Rob, who was assisting in a boyish 
way, that is, by unnecessary advice. 

“ I ’ll bring you a birch rod, dear, if I can,” replied 
his sister. 

And so with many merry words the packing was 
done, and Hilda made ready for the morning train. 
That would reach the station nearest the foot of the 
mountain, where she would find the stage-coa^h before 
noon. 

It was a lovely autumn morning and every nerve 


A JOURNEY AND A VISIT . 


151 

of the young girl thrilled in delicious sympathy. She 
had not been on the cars many times in her life, never 
since her babyhood, for a real journey ; and when the 
little feeling of homesickness, that came as she lost 
sight of the familiar depot, was past, she was ready for 
a “good time.” 

The train made many stops, and it was quite noon 
when she found herself and trunk at the station. 

“Stage leaves, ma’am, at one precisely,” said the 
burly driver. “ You ’ve got pretty nigh an hour for 
dinner, if you can manage it in that time; and he 
walked off as pleased with himself as though that joke 
had not been said scores of times before. 

They were calling on every side to dinner, and the 
smoking dishes did look tempting to a hungry girl, 
but she resolutely passed on to the waiting-room, and 
opening her dry lunch, ate it with the best of all sauces, 
hunger, and it was sufficient. 

Looking about for water after she had finished, she 
saw that the faucet was in the hands of a small child 
who was trying in vain to turn it, while, near by, the 
mother, looking very warm, sat holding a sleeping babe 
which she evidently did not wish to disturb. 

“ Try again, Tommy,” she said softly, as he began 
to whimper. 

“ It wont ; I can’t, ma,” answered Tommy, and the 
whimper grew louder. 

Now why did not Hilda spring up to his help and 


152 


FATHER'S HOUSE. 


the relief of the poor woman ? I am ashamed to tell 
you : but the only other occupants of the waiting-room 
were an old lady and gentleman lunching in the farther 
corner, and a very pretty and well-dressed young lady 
intently engaged in reading. Hilda feared if she went 
to the aid of that child in yellow delaine frock and 
turkey-red apron, this unknown might take her as 
belonging to the family party. 

It does seem as though Hilda was very weak, and 
as though you or I could never possibly do such things, 
does n’t it ? But a surprise and a lesson both came to 
her, when, the attention of the young lady being called 
from her book by the noise, she at once closed it and 
sprang to the aid of the small boy. “Why, child, 
couldn’t you get any water? Of course not,” as two 
or three turns in each direction failed to bring any, 
“there is none here. Come with me, and I will get 
you some; and maybe there’s a stick of candy out 
here too.” 

Enticed by this prospect Tommy slipped his fingers 
into the neatly-gloved hand extended to him and was 
led off, the young lady stopping to take a drinking- cup 
from her own bag. 

In a few minutes they came back, Tommy radiant, 
with a great orange in each hand, and a paper of 
candy in his apron pocket. 

“ See, ma, one for me and one for you.” 

“Wont you have a cup of water?” asked the 


A JOURNEY AND A VISIT. 


153 


stranger, offering it to the woman, who took it gladly 
and drained every drop. 

“You look very tired,” said the young lady after 
packing away the cup, “let me take the baby a few 
minutes. It is not very heavy,” she added as she 
lifted it. 

“ No, miss, she ’s been sick most all summer. The 
doctor said if I could get her out in the country a while 
he thought ’t would save her. But John was sick too, 
that’s my husband, miss, and I couldn’t get away 
before.” 

“ And I trust the doctor’s words will prove true,” 
said the young lady heartily. 

Soon the conductor called out, “ All aboard for the 
North,” and she added, “ That ’s my train, but let me 
give you this litde book I ’ve been reading ; I think 
you ’ll find a great deal of comfort in it and laying 
the little book in her lap, she said a kind “ Good-by ” 
and hastened out. 

It was almost time for Hilda to go too, but the little 
while that remained was as full of earnest thought as 
any equal length of time in all her life had ever been. 
Her own selfishness stood out plainly before her ; what 
her real aim had been, was only too manifest — the 
gratification of self first. The text on the previous 
Sabbath had been, “ Seek ye first the kingdom of God 
and his righteousness, and all these things shall be 
added unto you and under Mr. Agnew’s vivid por- 


Fatlier's House. 


20 


54 


FATHERS HOUSE. 


traying she had seen that that meant the giving to 
Christ’s cause of not money merely, but also of whatever 
else one had, and doing everything to please Him. 
Now she stood convicted, so humbled that she gave no 
heed to the departure of mother and children on 
another train, and was still deep in prayerful thought 
when her stage- driver spoke to her. 

“All ready now, miss; coach waiting; have put 
your trunk aboard ; this way ;” and soon Hilda was 
helped up the steps to the square, unwieldy vehicle. 

There were only the old gentleman and his wife 
whom she had noticed in the waiting-room, and a quiet 
ministerial-looking gentleman who sat in front on the 
driver’s seat. 

“ How far are you going, ma’am ?” asked the 
coachman. 

“ I ’m going to Aunt Rachel Gale’s,” she said 
quickly. 

“ Exactly so ; you ’ll get there about four o’clock.” 

There were several miles of drive before they began 
to climb the mountain-side ; the day was perfect, the 
rolled-up curtains gave the whole view to the travellers, 
and Hilda felt that her enjoyment was complete. There 
were long strips of meadow fields, where shocks of 
corn stood ready for the husking, and others where 
fall grain was just greening the top of the ground. 
There were orchards bending under their weight of 
fruit, and trees that rattled their nuts on the top of the 


A JOURNEY AND A VISIT. 


155 


coach as it bowled along, and Hilda thought there had 
never been so beautiful a day before. 

At length the road became narrower, with frequent 
ascents and pitches, and more stones and sometimes 
rocks. The houses were yellow now, or the color that 
the sun and wind had painted them. They came to 
four corners where there was a guide-board, and a 
schoolhouse with all its small frequenters out for recess, 
and the schoolma’am looking out of the window 
nodding a friendly greeting. 

Then they began to ascend the mountain in earnest, 
sometimes in long gentle inclines, and again by sharp 
pitches that the horses always took in the most impet- 
uous manner, and then stopped on the top as if to say, 
“we have earned a good breath this time any way.” 
Presently the road grew broader, and the houses and 
fields looked better. “There’s a level region up 
here,” the driver said, “ and the soil ’s better than that 
you ’ve come over.” 

They came in time to a church, a small brown 
chapel, and near it a small house of the same color, and 
a blacksmith’s shop. 

“You’re very near your aunt’s now,” said the 
driver presently, looking back. 

Hilda looked out with a feeling of disappointment ; 
the road seemed steeper and narrower here than any- 
where else. They were climbing quite a hill now ; but 
a little after they reached the top and seemed to be on 


FATHER'S HOUSE. 


156 

more level ground, they made a sharp turn to the right, 
and there was Aunt Rachel’s long yellow house, and 
beyond and below she caught a glimpse of such a view 
as almost took away her breath. 

Only for a moment, and then as the driver drew up 
to the little gate in the stone wall, and called out, 
“ Brought a passenger for you to-day, Mrs. Gale,” her 
eyes turned to the pleasant face of a white-haired old 
lady standing on the stoop, and a young girl running 
down the stony walk to meet her. 

“This is Cousin Hilda, is it? and you did come, 
did n’t you ? I was so afraid you would n’t. Grandma, 
here she is,” leading Hilda up the walk as though she 
was afraid to lose hold of her lest she should slip away 
again. 

“ Niece Hilda, you are very welcome,” said the old 
lady, putting a hand on each side of the young face as 
she kissed it. “We have often spoken of Wesley and 
his family, and wished much to be better acquainted. 
But you are tired, and dusty too, I know. Agnes, take 
your cousin to her room, and let her rest and refresh 
herself.” 

“Oh, I cannot go in,” cried Hilda; “who ever 
dreamed of such a view as this !” 

“ That ’s always the way,” returned Agnes good 
naturedly. “There isn’t much use of having any 
inside to our house, is there, grandma ?” 

“ There might be in December,” said the old lady. 


A JOURNEY AND A VISIT. 


57 


“ Well, Cousin Hilda, I ’ll tell you one thing ; the 
mountains and the valleys wont run away in the next 
hour, I ’ve lived right here all my sixteen years, and 
they ’ve stayed all the time. And here ’s mother, too, 
coming to tell us that supper is ready. Perhaps you 
think you are not hungry, Cousin Hilda, but you’ll 
find out,” added the lively girl. 

And just then the younger Mrs. Gale, with a face 
as calm and placid as that of her mother-in-law, ap- 
peared in the door with a cordial greeting. “ Yes, tea 
is nearly ready, and after supper you may use your 
eyes all you can ; and I think you will be repaid,” she 
said. 

But Hilda found herself no better off when they got 
up stairs, for her own room had a western window 
looking off over the beautiful valley she had recently 
come through, and at last Agnes had to draw the 
white curtain over the window to get her cousin’s toilet 
completed. 

When they sat down at the supper table Hilda 
found that her “ mountain appetite ” had commenced. 
Bread, white and brown, late blackberries and maple 
sugar, golden butter and honey and cottage cheese, 
with a glass of milk cool from the spring, might have 
tempted an epicure. 

“ She found her aunt’s family to consist, beside the 
three she had already met, of a boy of about twelve, a 
girl two or three years younger, who was quite lame, 


158 


FATHER'S HOUSE. 


and Jerry, who would eat his bread and milk supper 
after chores were done. Jerry was the man of all work, 
who had lived with Aunt Rachel for ten years or more, 
a Yankee who attended to his own business, chewed 
spruce gum in the place of tobacco, and whittled when- 
ever he had nothing else to do. 

Walter and Patty were the orphan children of a 
poor, drinking, shiftless man who burned charcoal be- 
tween his sprees, and finally, one bitter night lost his 
way between the pit and his hut, and became so chilled 
that he died in a few days. His wife had gone two 
years before, and the children were left to the tender 
mercies of the town ; but Aunt Rachel had stepped in 
and rescued them. That was four years ago now, and 
she had never regretted her kind act. It was not to 
be understood how two such bright, active children 
could have belonged to such good-for-nothing parents. 
Walter especially was a boy to be proud of. 

And now commenced a new experience to Hilda, 
and she seemed to herself to have had several of late. 
The first day she gave herself up to solid enjoyment. 
It was sufficient to breathe that delicious upland air, 
and to take in what the eye could of the wonders 
around her. Along the entire south side of the yellow 
house ran a covered stoop, opening out of the kitchen, 
and here in warm weather the morning work was car- 
ried on. The air was still very mild for October, a sort 
of Indian summer haze was in the distance, and the 


A JOURNEY AND A VISIT. 


159 


next morning after her arrival the family were out, 
busy as usual. Agnes had drawn out a large arm- 
chair and seated her cousin at the west end of the 
stoop, where with just sufficient sense of the weariness 
of the past two days to make rest refreshing, she was 
enjoying herself to the full. 

In a small room also opening upon the piazza Aunt 
Rachel was at work at her loom, weaving a rag carpet 
Walter was churning, and near him lay Shep, the large 
gray dog. Patty, sitting on the edge of the piazza, 
was shelling beans for dinner. Agnes was washing 
dishes by the kitchen door, and her mother making 
pies by the pantry window. Pleasant chat and snatches 
of song accompanied the homely sounds of labor, and 
occasionally there would come pauses of quiet when 
Hilda could hear Jerry calling to his team below, or 
the crickets chirping, the woodpeckers chipping, or 
even the nuts falling in the woods about them. To 
the east the woods swept on up to the mountain top, but 
to the south and west the eye could range far as it 
would, until swelling hills and blue sky seemed blent 
together in the far distance. It was a scene never to 
be forgotten, and all the morning long, yes, all day, 
Hilda drank it in with perfect delight. 

But after another night of refreshing sleep she came 
down with a feeling that she also had a part and a 
place in this busy world, and wanting “something 
to do.” 


FATHER'S HOUSE. 


160 

“ I ’ve nothing for you,” said Cousin Ruth Gale. 
“ We manage to keep ourselves pretty busy, it is true, 
but then that ’s what we want. Did n’t you bring up 
your fall sewing?” 

“No, Alice and father told me not to. I brought 
a large enough trunk, it’s true, but you needn’t im- 
agine there ’s much in it.” 

“Why, then you ought to fill it up while here,” 
said Cousin Ruth. 

“ Rob and Alice wanted some little pine-trees and 
ferns,” said Hilda. 

“ Well, I think we have better things than those,” 
said Aunt Rachel kindly. 

“Do you have any garden?” asked Cousin Ruth. 

“ O dear no, not a bit.” 

“You need not waste your time here,” said Cousin 
Ruth. “There ’s plenty of garden stuff, and the frosts 
have held off remarkably this year. I ’ll find work for 
you. Here, Walter, run down into the garden and 
pick a good bushel basket of that last corn ; it is nice and 
soft yet ; and I ’ll put on a kettle to scald it off, and 
you shall have one bag at least to carry home.” 

“I always say,” said Cousin Ruth, “that if our 
friends take the trouble to climb up here in the air to 
see us, they ought to pay their passage off the farm, 
and especially where they only live in rooms, with no 
outdoors at all as you do.” 

And then what more natural with such friends, 

i 


A JOURNEY AND A VISIT. 161 

than that Hilda should tell all about the plan for the 
new house, and the little beginning made, and all their 
hopes, and how they were growing to look at every 
cent on both sides be‘fore they spent it, and the turning 
of the old coat Cousin Ruth had sent them so many 
years before. And how that touched the kind cousin 
who held still in such tender love the husband who 
was called away before his baby -girl had learned to 
know his face. Hilda did well in telling the whole 
story. There were more interested now in the yet 
unknown home. 

“And it’s a good thing for the young,” said kind 
Aunt Rachel in her gentle voice, “who are earning 
their own way, to have some such motive for being 
prudent and careful of the pennies. Only, my dear, 
take care that you do n’t hold them too fast when any 
call comes to give to the Lord or to his poor, for you 
know the word is, ‘ Give and it shall be given to you 
andT believe it is a true one too.” 

A sudden light shot into Hilda’s mind, that was 
very like a reproach. She remembered that since she 
had opened that “house-box,” as Rob called it, she had 
been in the habit of excusing herself when the contribu- 
tion-box came around in church, or being satisfied with 
dropping in the coin of least value she had in her purse ; 
and she inwardly resolved not to do that again. 

Her stay on the mountain seemed but as a day, 
so filled was it with busy pleasure. There was corn 


Father's House, 


21 


FATHER'S HOUSE . 


162 

to be cut off, spread and dry, until a large bag testified 
to a generous provision for their winter table. There 
was another bag filled with dried apples that were care- 
fully pared and sliced by her own hand ; and a third, 
of strips of golden pumpkin, of which her father was 
particularly fond. Tomatoes, too, sprinkled with sugar 
and dried, were packed in a pitcher that had lost han- 
dle and nose. There was a brown paper package of 
hops, and another of sage, and still a third of mint, 
and a fourth of boneset. There was a large cake of 
maple-sugar made at the farm, and a small jar of spiced 
blackberries packed in a box of shelled beans. In the 
evenings her cousin set her to braiding a mat from the 
rags left Irom the nearly completed carpet. 

“This shall be kept for the new house,” said Hilda, 
after braiding the first quarter yard. 

“ Is n’t it fun to be planning and fixing for a home 
so? Grandma,” the two girls happened to be alone 
with the old lady, “ I really must go to work planning 
a home. What do you say to it?” 

“ I trust you are both doing that every day,” said 
the old lady, looking up from her knitting. 

“ Grandma means, I know what,” cried Agnes. 

“‘A house not made with hands, eternal in the 
heavens,’ ” said grandma. 

“But doesn’t it seem rather strange,” asked Hilda, 
“ to be at work for such a home ? which one has never 
seen, I mean.” 


A JOURNEY AND A VISIT. 163 

“ Have you ever seen this house that you talk of 
for your father, my child ?” 

“Not that I know of, Aunt Rachel.” 

“ But, grandma, how can we go to work to fit up 
such a home as you mean?” asked Agnes. 

“By laying up your treasure there, dears. Kind 
acts and loving deeds will go on before.” 

There were beautiful quiet afternoons, too, that 
Hilda never forgot, when the two girls went out with 
the children to gather wood treasures for Alice, or nuts 
for Rob and Bessie. It was too late for the ferns Alice 
had desired, but there were the most beautiful and 
curious leaves to be pressed, strange grasses to be 
grouped, and bits of quartz and stray agates to be 
carefully laid away. 

Sabbath morning dawned clear and fair, and mild 
as the days that had preceded it. At half-past nine 
wagons large and small began to rumble past with 
their loads of people dressed in their best, on the way 
to the little brown church, and Aunt Rachel was anx- 
ious to go, and sure they would all be late if they did 
not get off. But in due time the old lady and Jerry 
set off in the old-fashioned chaise, and the younger 
ones followed on foot. Cousin Ruth, having burned 
her hand, was to be housekeeper for the day. 

It was less than a mile to the little church, and for 
Hilda altogether too short a one. Then came the two 
preaching services and Sabbath -school between, in the 


164 


FATHER'S HOUSE. 


old way. After the preacher had finished the prelim- 
inary services and taken his text, Hilda found there 
was “ strong meat ” dealt out to that mountain flock. 
She did not wonder at the rapt attention and the 
crowded seats. Every phase of Nature, in her sterner 
or more playful moods, he seemed to have stored in 
his memory, and to clothe in rugged but poetic garb. 
He spoke the every-day truths of their needs and their 
promised help, and ever and anon in some burst of 
words he would carry them far over the seas, and show 
their relations to the ignorant heathen, and the Divine 
command, “ Go work in my vineyard.” 

It was no empty “ corn-popper,” as Walter called 
it, that was set down on the platform after going the 
rounds in collecting, though there would have been 
found no bills of large size in it. 

“You are to be missionaries, every one of you,” 
was the lesson the preacher taught all the year, and 
Hilda was not surprised to learn that one native teacher 
in India was paid, and one pupil in Turkey supported 
by this little church, besides its many other offerings. 

They had a long missionary talk that twilight, as 
they all sat out on the stoop and watched the sun sink 
out of sight, below them as it seemed, and 

“ The clouds that gathered to see him die, 

Had caught his dying smile.” 

“ Aunt Rachel,” asked Hilda a little later, as they 
were alone, “ do you think it possible for a young girl 


A JOURNEY AND A VISIT. 165 

like me to be calm and at peace all the time, as you 
seem to be?” 

“ Do n’t say that, dear, though I do trust that the 
dear Lord holds me in his peace most of the time now ; 
yet I have had a stormy heart and it is only his grace 
that keeps me. Yet for nineteen to be like seventy-five 
is not his appointing.” 

“ And I ’ve got it all to learn then, have I ?” asked 
Hilda a little sadly. 

“ All to learn,” responded the aged one triumphantly, 
“ and how grand it is to have many years for his lead- 
ing. But be careful, child, the leading is not your own.” 

“But how shall I know, aunt?” 

“ ‘ If any of you lack wisdom, let him ask of God . . . 
and it shall be given him,’ ” was the reply. “ It is a 
truth, for the Divine Master has assured us of it, that if 
we offer, to him a willing heart to be led, he will give to 
us, in every condition, plain directions for the way. 

‘ He that followeth me, shall not walk in darkness,’ he 
says.” 

“ I would so often like to be sure,” said Hilda; “ I 
am so tired of an up-and-down way. I do n’t ‘ stay 
put,’ Aunt Rachel.” 

“No, dear, no ; he does not make us perfect all at 
once. But did you ever think, he means you to learn 
even through your mistakes ?” 

“ Well then, aunt, I must just ‘ try, try again,’ must 
I ?” queried Hilda. 


1 66 


FATHER'S HOUSE . 


“Yes” 

The young girl sighed. “ There ’s work enough 
before me then.” 

“ But conquering and gaining are worth much, dear. 
Just let Him help you ; do n’t try to do it all yourself.” 

And that was a good word, that came back to 
Hilda many times. Self-reliant by nature and still 
more from circumstances, it was the best possible 
thought for her, that she must be but as one of the 
helpful belts in her own mill, the power and strength 
out of sight. 

The remaining days of her stay were short and 
busy ones. 

“ Friday does hurry on so,” Agnes said regretfully; 
“ I never knew anything like it.” 

“And we haven’t showed Hilda half the places on 
the mountain,” cried Walter. 

“ I hope not,” cried Agnes. “ There ’s the ‘ bear’s 
cave,’ and the grotto, and the ice-cave, and ever so 
many more.” 

But in spite of all, Friday morning came, and about 
ten o’clock the stage appeared. The large trunk, 
packed so that Walter and Patty had to sit down hard 
on it to bring it together, was carried out, and after 
two or three leave-takings all around, the traveller 
climbed up the steps, and set her face toward the 
valley again, and beyond that to the home. 


HO LI DA Y GIFTS. 


1 67 


CHAPTER XI. 

HOLIDAY GIFTS. 

“ Coming home ” was not a bad thing, Hilda found, 
especially that first evening when her trunk was opened 
and its treasures displayed. There was a small jar 
among them of “clover honey,” that had been sent 
especially to Mr. Duncan, as well as a pair of stout blue 
woollen socks, the yarn for which had been spun, knit, 
and colored by the kind hands of Aunt Rachel. There 
was a surprise too for Hilda, for she found, carefully 
wrapped up in damp cloths and packed in a little box 
of sawdust, two rolls of golden butter, such as could 
not be bought for money every day. That had been 
the errand that called Cousin Ruth away from the 
breakfast table that morning, and which had seemed to 
please Agnes so much. 

“O dear,” sighed Bessie, after listening until long 
past- her usual bedtime to Hilda’s glowing recitals, 
“how nice it must be to live with a great lot of nice 
clean air all to yourself, not breathed over ever so 
much before.” 

“ I was very sorry,” said Hilda, when the child was 
asleep, “that I didn’t take Bessie with me; and so 


1 68 


FATHERS HOUSE. 


were they all. The ‘ clean air/ as she calls it, would 
have done her good as well as me.” 

The next Monday morning, prompt and clear, the 
mill of Hart and Trask rang out its summons again, 
and the workers hurried to their places ; and in a little 
while the rest and refreshing of her delightful visit 
began to seem dream-like to Hilda; only when she 
lifted her eyes to the blue mountains in range of her 
own window, she remembered with joy what a won- 
derful picture her own little life surroundings in that 
valley were making a part of for other eyes. 

“Where did you go?” asked Kate, and on being 
told shrugged her shoulders in disdain. 

“ Did you stay at home ?” asked Hilda. 

“ Not I. Pop had to open his purse and give me 
all there was in it, and I went down to Cousin Nell 
Hawks’ in the city.” 

“ Did you have a nice time ?” questioned Hilda. 

“Yes, indeed. Out every night but one while I 
was there. Went to the theatre, and the gardens, 
and the minstrels’. I tell you, one do n’t half live here, 
the city’s the place for my taste.” 

“Has Nell a pleasant home?” asked Hilda, for 
Kate’s cousin had once lived in Valley Falls. 

“Oh, good enough; it’s over her husband’s gro- 
cery and a dreadful noisy place, but then it don’t 
make much matter what kind of a place you live in, in 
the city, because you can go out all the time.” 


HO LID A Y GIFTS. 


169 


“ But I thought she had children.” 

“Yes, two little nuisances; but she has a little girl 
that lives with her, and she do n’t tie herself down a bit. 
Will, her husband, thinks a heap of the young ones, 
and they are as bright as buttons, and he frets some- 
times when she leaves them, but Nell do n’t mind.” 

“Your ma told mine,” said Anna, “that you had 
to send for money to come home with.” 

“ La, yes ; the city’s such a place to spend money; 
but then you get its worth out of it in fun.” 

Hilda began to look on Kate that fall a little anx- 
iously. She hardly ever came to their window at noon 
now. She had become very intimate with two of the 
boldest, rudest girls in the mill, and was on the streets 
a great deal in the evenings. She heard through 
Anna, who lived near them, that Mr. and Mrs. Marsh 
had alternative fits of scolding and petting, but that 
Kate paid little attention to either. She was seen at only 
two of the lectures. Once her brown silk rustled down 
the aisle to a front place, and once a new trailing cash- 
mere was made to show off. 

Hilda saw her at church but once, and then having 
been shown to a seat too far back for her liking, she led 
her two new friends up to a more conspicuous place 
near the pulpit. 

As for Hilda herself, she was as busy and happy as 
could be. Mr. Duncan’s health had not been so good 
in years, and. he worked steadily, so that every week 
22 


Father's House. 


170 


FATHER'S HOUSE. 


the “ house-box ” of the children grew in value. Alice’s 
work proved a decided success. After the socks she 
took up sacks and hoods, and her skilful fingers and 
pretty patterns secured ready sales. Her sister began 
to fear that she would overwork, but Alice only laughed 
in glee over the bills she also was able to drop into 
the box. 

One quiet evening hour, too, Hilda told Alice of 
what Connie and her mountain friends had said about 
praying over every matter, and how she believed that 
God was helping them. Her own faith was growing 
and together they read the promise, “ If two of you 
shall agree as touching anything they shall ask, it 
shall be done for them of my Father,” and after that 
there were two daily seeking a blessing for the as yet 
unknown home. 

The lectures proved a great success, drawing 
crowded houses ; but after all, the very ones whom the 
managers of the matter had been most anxious to get 
in were not there. The young men would rather any 
evening lose a dollar or two at cards or billiards, to 
say nothing of “treats,” than spend a quarter on a 
useful lecture. They “worked hard all day,” they 
said, and they “must have their fun of an evening.” 
Only a few of the operatives in the mills came regularly. 
But there were always two or three from Mr. Duncan’s 
family, and they got their “full pay,” they thought. 

Hilda had often said in her own heart, if she only 


H OLID A Y GIFTS. 


171 

could find just a little corner of work over which she 
might write directly, “for Christ’s sake,” she would 
be very glad; but when their Sabbath -school superin- 
tendent, Mr. Trask, stopped her one day on her way 
to her own class, and said, 

“Miss Duncan, I believe you have always been in 
Sabbath-school ever since you can remember, and I 
think it must be about time for you to go to take a 
class, do n’t you?” she stopped in a tremble. 

“ I ! why, Mr. Trask, I do n’t know enough.” 

“ But you ought to, surely.” 

“ And I ’ve been in Mrs. Newell’s class so long.” 

“Yes, and that ’s such a great privilege, that it 
ought to make you wish to do the same for others.” 

“Where is the class?” asked Hilda in despair. 

“ There are five little boys, my Willie among the 
number, that come just between two classes. I would 
like to have you begin with them.” 

With great reluctance Hilda suffered herself to be led 
around to the place where five eager pairs of eyes were 
waiting to see the new teacher and five restless tongues 
were all ready to break forth. 

Mr. Trask introduced her, and then went forward 
to open the exercises. During these, and while Mr. 
Trask stood with his keen eye searching every corner, 
the boys did not dare to do anything but keep quiet, 
and Hilda had a chance to still the restless beatings of 
her own heart, and strange to herself began to feel 


172 


FATHER'S HOUSE. 


quite an interest in her class. But as soon as “lesson 
time” was announced, and Mr. Trask was out in the 
infant-class room, her trials began. 

“Is your name Miss Duncan?” asked one. 

“Did you ever teach before?” said another. 

“Do you work in the mill?” 

“ Pshaw ! I a’ n’t coming to a teacher that works in 
the mill.” 

“I’d be ashamed, Fred Barlow,” said Willie Trask, 
“to. talk so. Miss Duncan, shall I recite the verses to 
you?” 

“ If you please, Willie,” and so at last they were 
started, and soon Fred forgot all about her being a 
“mill girl” when he found she knew stories to illus- 
trate the lesson. Hilda had not read all these years 
for nothing. Besides, she had the real teacher tact 
about her, and Mr. Trask was well satisfied with his 
choice. As for Hilda, you could not have found any 
excuse sufficient to keep her at home from Sabbath- 
school after this, short of sickness. 

Her birthday came in the early part of December, 
and that of Bessie soon after. As the little girl always 
feelingly said, “We are so unfortunate, Hilda and I, 
as not to have any birthday, because it comes so near 
Christmas. Alice and Rob have one in the summer.” 

Alice remembered Bessie’s with an apple-pudding 
for supper, and some of Aunt Rachel’s honey; but 
there was a ready-made treat for Hilda’s day, inasmuch 


HO LI DA Y GIFTS. 


173 


as it happened of a Tuesday and it was “minister’s 
evening.” These gatherings had become established 
now, and to some seemed the best hours of the week. 
Hilda went at least half of the time, for she had learned 
well her way to the study, and had already many 
favorite books on its shelves. Connie’s idea had been 
carried out, and one would often find little groups 
gathered in the upper hall or study, and one reading 
aloud some book, too choice or rare to borrow, while 
the others listened. 

There was such a circle now, and a large one it was 
too, in the hall about Mr. Trask as reader; but Hilda 
sat alone in the study, so absorbed in her book that 
she scarcely heeded any one’s approach until a little 
hand was laid softly on her arm and a child’s voice 
asked, “Miss Duncan, do I disturb you?” 

She looked up to see Willie Trask at her side. He 
was not often allowed to come, but to-night he had 
pleaded so hard that Margie could not refuse. 

“Not at all, Willie; I am glad to see you here,” 
answered Hilda quickly, making room in the large 
chair for him beside her. 

Now ever since Hilda had become his teacher the 
little lad had cherished the profoundest admiration for 
her. He would go across the street as quick as thought 
to get the opportunity to meet and raise his cap to 
“ Miss Duncan.” He saved his largest apples for her, 
and everywhere defended her like a boy-chevalier. 


174 


FATHER'S HOUSE. 


Hilda had been reading from a Review a profound 
but very interesting article on Faith. The title had 
caught her eye and she had been quite lost in it. Now 
she closed the book upon her finger, but Willie said, 

“ Miss Duncan, I wish you would read to me, just 
where you were, you know.” 

“ I am afraid it is too old for you,” she answered. 

“Try me, Miss Duncan, and see; I love to hear 
papa read old books.” 

So Hilda took up again the article where she had 
left off and the boy leaning against her listened quietly, 
never interrupting, scarcely moving. When she had 
finished the article she closed the pamphlet, and said, 
“How patient you have been, Willie; are you all 
tired out ?” 

“O Miss Duncan, I could hear you read such 
things as those an hour more and not be tired or 
sleepy.” 

“ What do you mean by ‘ such things ’ ?” she asked, 
wishing to draw him out. 

“Why, you know, Miss Duncan; I mean things 
good men write.” 

“And who are good men, Willie?” 

“Why, those who love God and Christ, you know. 
You do, do n’t you, Miss Duncan ?” 

“ I hope so ; do you, Willie ?” 

“Yes, ma’am;” and then in a few minutes he was • 
rapidly recounting his plans for the near Christmas, 


HO LI DA Y GIFTS. 


175 


and his hopes that there would be snow for coasting, 
and ice for skating, and “ Oh, lots of fun.” 

Hilda enjoyed her little boy-friend; indeed her 
whole class became very dear to her. She consulted 
with Alice as to what entertainment she could devise 
for them during the holidays. At first it seemed as if 
she could not invite these boys, all of them from pleas- 
ant homes, to her little kitchen ; but at last Alice sug- 
gested that the remainder of the maple-sugar that had 
come down from Aunt Rachel’s should be waxed for 
their amusement, and it was decided to invite them for 
New-Year’s Eve. 

But before that came Christmas. Hilda had always 
been in the habit of spending a little money at that 
time, if she happened to possess it, on pretty, but on the 
whole, useless things. This year the three who kept 
the secret and a “ house-box ” decided to make their 
presents to one another very inexpensive. Father 
should have the promised overcoat from Hilda and a 
good vest and handkerchief from the others; and 
Bessie her stocking full of fruit, candy, and nuts, an 
entire set of new clothes for “ Fanny Furbelow,” made 
by the sisters, and a cradle made by Rob for the same. 
For themselves, each of the three gave the others a 
present, but they were all chosen for use as well as 
pleasure. Christmas proved a quiet day after all. 
Hilda had one of her headaches, just bad enough to 
make rest and Alice’s quiet sisterly ways very delightful. 


176 


FATHER'S HOUSE. 


There were two surprises, too, for Hilda that day. 
In the morning came a letter and a package from the 
mountain-farm. The letter was full of love and kind 
wishes, and the box contained the prettiest bouquet of 
feather flowers; so delicate and fairylike they were 
that it seemed as though the girls could not admire 
them enough. That was Agnes’ work, taught her by 
a lady who had boarded with them one summer. 

And then the other. After dinner Bessie went off 
to play with a little neighbor shut up with a cold, and 
to display “ Fanny Furbelow ” in her new finery. 
Alice had finished her work and put the kitchen and 
herself in order, and was just sitting down to read to 
Hilda, who was in the large rocking-chair, when there 
came a sudden noise in the hall below that startled 
them both. “ What can that be ?” said Hilda. 

The noise, whatever it was, was coming up the 
stairs now — such a tramp and a hubbub — and all at 
once stopped at their door. Perfect quiet now, and a 
faint tap on the door. Alice opened it. There stood 
five very small men in their overcoats, mittens,, and 
comforters, and five gay sleds behind them. Willie 
Trask- was at the head. 

“Is Miss Duncan at home?” he said, making a 
violent effort with one hand to get off his cap and ear- 
tabs, at which the four others all made frantic pulls at 
their caps. 

“ Yes, she is,” said Alice ; “ wont you walk in ?” 


HO LI DA Y GIFTS. 


1 77 


They dropped their sleds and marched in and up to 
Hilda’s chair without a word. 

“Good afternoon and Merry Christmas, boys,” she 
said ; “ I am glad to see you.” 

No one answered. They had evidently come on 
weighty business. 

“ Hurry up, Fred,” whispered the rear one, where- 
upon the tallest boy stepped forward with a brown 
paper package in his hand. “Miss Duncan, please 
take this from us boys, because you a’ n’t fussy and we 
like you very much ;” and they all got up as close as 
possible to enjoy Hilda’s opening paper after paper 
until she exclaimed she did n’t believe there was any- 
thing in there after all, and then her surprise and pleas- 
ure over the pretty silver fruit-knife she at last found 
lying on pink cotton in a little box. 

“ And do you think it ’s nice ?” asked Willie ; “ I do, 
and we picked it out all ourselves too.” 

And then they must each tell of what Santa Claus 
had brought them, and it was a full hour before the 
noisy chatterers went back to their sleds and play. 
Shortiy after, Hilda and Alice went out together for a 
walk. In the street, Hilda said, “I feel as though I 
wanted to do something for somebody myself, every- 
body is so good to me. Do you care where you go, 
Alice?” 

“ Not a bit.” 

“Then we ’ll go and see if Peggy Morrissy is better; 
23 


Father’s House, 


i?8 


FA THE 1? S HOUSE. 


she has been out of the mill several days. And then to 
Amanda Sims’ ; her father is dying with consumption, 
and they are wretchedly poor.” 

Hilda took out her purse and opened it. There 
was just a fifty-cent scrip in it which she had put there 
to get a supply of nuts and candy for a little home- 
feast that evening. Alice knew about it. 

“ I can’t go to those places empty-handed on 
Christmas,” Hilda said. 

“No, indeed; use it; and for this evening make 
some molasses candy and put butternut meats in.” 

“All right; we will.” And soon, with a good 
package of oranges and grapes, they were on their way. 

“ We will go to Peggy’s first,” said Hilda, turning 
off on a lane. “How good this air does feel after being 
shut up in the house all day.” 

“ ‘ You must love your blessings to appreciate them/ 
Miss Jay says,” again quoted Alice; “although you 
are shut up enough every day, to be sure. How I do 
wish you did n’t have to work so hard, Hilda.” 

“ Why, Alice, I feel as though there was not a hap- 
pier person in town. Just look in there, Alice, and 
then say ‘ Appreciate your blessings.’ ” 

Alice glanced in at the windows they were passing 
and saw a poor wreck of a woman, emaciated and wild- 
looking, stretching up aimless fingers for the spoon a 
surly-looking man was holding toward her. 

“How that woman does live!” said Alice with a 


HO LI DA Y GIFTS. 


179 

shudder ; “ and nothing to look forward to, here or 
beyond,” she added in a lower tone. 

At length they reached the little double house 
at the end of the lane where was Peggy’s home. The 
curtains on her side were down, and it looked as 
though no one were at home. 

“ She is n’t here after all, I ’m afraid,” said Alice. 
But when they tapped at her door they heard the pat- 
ter of little feet, and a child’s hand, fumbled in vain at 
the high latch. Hilda helped, and found within the 
shy but rosy little face of Katy the youngest. 

“Is Peggy here?” she asked, for the room was so 
dark she could not at first distinguish objects. 

“ Yes, ma’am, I ’m here,” said a voice from the bed 
in the corner. “Oh, it’s Miss Duncan; come in, 
please.” And Peggy went to a window and rolled up 
the curtain, showing herself with nose and lips swollen 
from an influenza and eyes that blinked at the light. 

“Why, you poor girl, what a cold you have,” said 
Hilda. 

“Yes, it seems as though my head would burst, 
and the fire has most gone too,” looking at the cheer- 
less stove in which a few coals were left in a very 
forlorn state indeed. “It was so cold that Nellie got 
into the bed with me, and she ’s there now fast asleep ; 
and Katy’s so good she never made a wink of noise. 

I tried to get up to see to the fire, but my head would 
not let me.” 


180 FATHER’S HOUSE. 

■ “And you must lie right down again now,” said 
Hilda; “you look as if you needed to. There now, 
lie quiet and let me stroke your head a little.” 

“ And I will make up your fire,” said Alice, and she 
ran across the street and bought a two-cent bunch of 
kindlings, and in a few minutes they were cheerfully 
crackling while she carefully dropped in small shovel- 
fuls of coal till there was a good fire. 

“ What have you had to eat to-day, Peggy ?” asked 
Hilda. 

“Not much; I’m not hungry, but the thirst con- 
sumes me. The children had a bit of fish and potato 
left from yesterday ; I was better then. But it ’s a 
sorry Christmas to them, poor things.” 

.“ Would you like a cup of tea ?” asked Hilda. 

“Indeed, I could drink a bowl of it.” 

. Hilda found a tin basin and set it on with water, 
and as soon as it boiled put in some tea she found in a 
broken cup, and brought it with sugar to Peggy ; Alice 
found some baker’s bread and made as good a slice of 
soft toast as she could, and when this was set before 
her, the poor girl proved that her appetite was not 
quite gone by eating and drinking every bit. 

“ That was good/’ she said lying back with a sigh 
of relief ; “ my head is better already, thanks to your 
kindness.” 

“ Does no one come in to see you ?” asked Hilda. 
“ Who lives in the other part?” 


HOLIDAY GIFTS. 


181 


“ They ’re French, and the woman has a bit baby, 
and she ’s not over strong herself, and there ’s a heap 
more of children besides.” 

“ But where are the mill -girls ?” 

“ They ’re kind in general, but to-day ’s Christmas, 
you know, and they’re mostly out pleasuring.” 

The two little girls stood looking on so quietly that 
Hilda had forgotten her oranges. She remembered 
them now and gave each one, leaving two for Peggy. 

The sister’s face grew very bright. “ I ’m so glad 
for them,” she whispered through tears, “for she 
always gave them a bit cheer for Christmas, and it ’s 
been very lonely to-day, I could n’t get much for them, 
for the doctor’s bill is drawing yet and she used to say 
many a time, ‘ Peggy, you wont leave me to lie in my 
grave, will you, with anything owing to any one ?’ and 
I gave my promise.” 

The girls stayed a little longer and then left the 
humble room much brighter and three hearts much 
happier for their call. 

Mr. Sims, for whom they designed their other 
call, lived not far away. In a small up-stairs room, 
hot and close, but neat as hands could make it, lay the 
sick man; his wife sewing beside him, and the two 
children, Amanda, twelve years old, and Dwight, ten, 
both mill hands at home. 

The man greeted them warmly. “It’s good to 
see such red cheeks as you carry,” he said. 


FATHER'S HOUSE. 


182 


“It’s growing cool as night comes on,” answered 
Hilda. 

An open Bible lay on the bed beside him and he 
noticed the girls glance at it. “The children were 
wishing for something to read,” he said, “so we’ve 
been having the story that ’s more than eighteen hun- 
dred years old ; and what better Christmas story could 
we find ?” 

Then he asked with hearty interest after many 
friends and affairs, especially in regard to Mr. Agnew’s 
church, of which he had long been a consistent member. 
“ I try to get Mary to go out more,” he said, speaking 
of his wife; “but she says she would rather stay with 
me while I ’m spared to her. We ’ve had many happy 
days together, though it ’s been different from what I 
promised myself when I took her from her father’s 
house. And you all like the new minister, Miss 
Hilda?” 

“I do, and I think every one does,” she answered. 

“ He has been to see me twice,” continued the sick 
man, “ and I think his heart is in the right place for 
his work. His pretty wife came with him once, and 
she brightened up the poor little rooms like a bird. I 
hope she will be a good helpmeet,” with a glance at 
the faded face near him that was full of love. 

How were these young girls to know of the romance 
that never grew old in these two simple, pure hearts ? 
Of the memories that gilded as with sunrise the begin- 


HO LID A Y GIFTS. 


183 

ning of their wedded life? Of the hopes that as a 
crown they held, of reunion in that other life which 
was coming so near to at least one ? 

“You must miss church and evening meetings,” 
Hilda said. “ I know you used always to be there.” 

“ Yes, and I am glad I went while I could. I never 
regret any time that I spent in God’s house. But I 
have a little of it still ; Miss Flagg often comes in and 
sings me the sweet hymns I always loved so well, and 
used to try to sing a little myself. The last time she 
came a gentleman was with her, a Mr. Stoddard, and 
he sang with her, and then he prayed with me as if he 
had been a minister.” 

“Mr. Stoddard?” questioned Hilda. “I didn’t 
know he had been in town again ; though indeed I do 
not know how I should.” 

“ He appears to be a good man,” answered Mr. Sims. 

And then, as the invalid began to seem weary and 
inclined to cough, the girls gave him the fruit, for 
which he seemed very grateful, and started for home. 

Christmas day was going out in a blaze of splendor, 
and in the broader streets by which these two found 
their roundabout way many were enjoying it. They 
were just about to turn from one of these toward home 
when a white horse dashed up beside them, and some 
one called, “Miss Duncan, Miss Duncan.” 

Hilda looked round, to see Mr. Trask and Willie 
in a two-seated cutter beside them. 


1 84 


FATHER'S HOUSE. 


“Willie wants to give you a little ride, Miss Dun- 
can ; are you in haste ?” 

“Not especially, Mr. Trask; we were just going 
home.” 

“ Get in then, please, and Miss Alice, too, of course ; 
I have a little errand out at Deacon Marley’s, and we 
will go on there.” 

Willie had already clambered out of the robes 
and now assisted the two girls into the back seat, and 
away they glided, out through the village a little way 
beyond. While Mr. Trask went in to do his errand, 
Willie thought to show off his horsemanship a little 
and so drove on a few rods, but in attempting to turn 
around so nearly upset them, that it was only by both 
the girls springing to the upper side that the sleigh 
regained its balance. That gave them material enough 
for merriment and they rode home as happy a party 
as Valley Falls contained. 

Mr. Trask took them around to their own home, 
and with many thanks they went up stairs. At their 
door they found Mrs. Nelson with a basket. Mrs. 
Nelson was the wife of the corner grocer near, and 
many times Alice or Hilda had stayed in her cosey 
little home on a Sabbath evening to watch over the 
two small boys of the house, and let the mother and 
father go out to church together. 

“ I thought, the day being just what it was, I must 
remember my friends,” she said, “ and so I just filled 


HO LI DA Y GIFTS. 


1 85 

this basket and brought it over. I thought maybe 
you ’d all enjoy it this evening. Never mind emptying 
it now; I must go right back.” 

The girls took the basket in and looked at the 
fruit and nuts and candies it contained, and then at 
one another. 

“ Now I ’d like one thing more,” said Alice sud- 
denly stopping in the midst of unbuttoning her sack, 
and looking at Hilda. 

“What is that?” said her sister. 

“To ask Mrs. Ferguson over to supper this even- 
ing. You know she is alone there, and I heard her 
say once, she always dreaded such days.” 

“Why, of course; what a good thought! Run 
right over now, and I ’ll have the fire bright when you 
get back. Call for Bessie on your way.” 

“Was she in?” asked Hilda when the two sisters 
came running in. 

“Yes; sitting all alone in the twilight, and crying 
too, I ’m afraid. She thanked me so heartily.” 

But if the poor widow had been weeping, she 
showed no traces of it when she reached Mr. Duncan’s. 
Rob declared she told the jolliest stories of any of 
them, and she had a vast fund of them. 

They sat until ten o’clock, ate the good things 
Mrs. Nelson had provided, laughed over the mottoes, 
and guessed riddles, and then, as Mr. Duncan began to 
look at the clock as often as once in five minutes, their 


Father’s House, 


24 


FATHER'S HOUSE . 


1 86 

guest said, “ If it would not be intruding, I would like 
to ask if I might stay to prayers, Mr. Duncan. It 
would be a pleasant close to my Christmas, and it’s 
been a very happy evening indeed, thanks to you all.” 

So she stayed, and the three young folks went 
home with her, and saw her light her lamp before 
they left her. 


WILLIE. 


1 87 


CHAPTER XII. 

WILLIE. 

Saturday evenings Mr. Trask held teachers’ meet- 
ings in the church parlor, and here we find Hilda on 
the Saturday that closed Christmas week. Teachers’ 
meetings were not dull and spiritless matters there, as 
Hilda had found in the one or two she had attended. 
She had enjoyed the opportunity of study with a true 
scholar’s zest. They were seated now, fifteen or twen- 
ty, about a long table covered with a goodly array of 
commentaries, helps and papers. A little box at one 
end of the table received five cents or more from each 
teacher at every meeting. This box of tin lined with 
flannel, had done duty for the fifteen years or more 
that Mr. Trask had been superintendent of the school, 
and in that time had collected the generous reference 
library that now belonged to the Sabbath -school, a 
part of which lay on the table. 

But these books were not the first ones consulted. 
The first half hour they were allowed to open but one 
book, the Bible. After the opening prayer they read 
the lesson for the following Sabbath in turn, and the 
references in the margin. If any striking reference 
was read, with others branching from it, they turned 


FA TREES HOUSE. 


1 88 

to those, and thus would often go back and forth in 
the Bible tracing a thought whose fulness only the 
more opened upon them as they pursued it. In the 
allotted half-hour they would sometimes not get be- 
yond the first verse. But Mr. Trask was a prompt 
man and left that part of the lesson there, believing it 
would be followed out at home. He never allowed 
the meeting to run over the hour, having learned that 
it is better to rise from the table with hunger than 
satiety. 

Miss Flagg, who had a class of small girls, sat next 
to Hilda, and the latter could not but admire the com- 
posed, ladylike way in which the dressmaker held 
her place, never obtrusive, and yet always ready in 
her turn; and she wondered whether, after she had 
held place as teacher as long, her opinion would be as 
often asked and deferred to as Miss Flagg’s was. 

It was not the mere being asked, that Hilda thought 
of, but the ability to give the answers. It was the 
“really being so,” as she used to say, that she wanted. 

“Where did you find out so many things?” she 
ventured to whisper presently to Miss Flagg. 

“ Mother thinks them up and gives them to me,” 
was the answer. 

When the little meeting was over and they got to 
the door, they found it raining a little ; not hard, yet 
Hilda stopped in dismay. “ Run over with me,” said 
Miss Flagg, “ and get my waterproof.” 


WILLIE. 189 

It was only a few steps to Miss Flagg’s home, and 
Hilda was always glad to see the patient mother. 

“You have n’t been here in a long time,” the inva- 
lid said, holding out her wasted hand, and drawing the 
young girl’s face down to kiss it. 

“ I know; I often think of you, but I seem to find 
very little time to go out.” 

“ I suppose so. And you grow to look like your 
mother, Miss Hilda. You had a good mother; we 
lived near her, you know, when we first came here.” 

“ Oh, yes, I remember.” 

“And you have taken a class in Sunday-school, 
have you ? I think your mother would be glad.” 

“ Do you? I had not thought of that,” said Hilda’; 
“ I was afraid to take it, for I do n’t know enough ; I 
am only a mill-girl, you know.” 

“What you are, dear, does not depend on where 
your work may be. You must make every place 
noble.” 

“ I do want to, indeed, Mrs. Flagg, but I am afraid 
I do not succeed very well.” 

“I must hurry away,” she added; “Jenny will be 
out of patience waiting ;” for a neighbor was waiting 
for her in a milliner’s shop below. 

That was the beginning of a pleasant friendship 
between these two. Miss Flagg, or Susan, as Hilda soon 
learned to call her, was three or four years older, and 
was just the helpful friend that this impulsive and yet 


FATHER'S HOUSE. 


190 

earnest young girl needed; while she found in the 
mother the helpful, cultured adviser, able by her own 
poverty to understand all the daily trials of Hilda’s lot. 
On many a pleasant winter’s evening did Hilda and 
Alice run in for an hour, and it seemed to Hilda that 
Susan grew younger and fairer every week, and cer- 
tainly she had never dreamed that there was so much 
merriment in her. She used always to think her rather 
sad-looking ; but that she concluded was because she 
had never really known her before. 

New Year’s brought her class of boys as she and 
Alice had planned ; and certainly, if they did not have 
a good time, their next-door neighbors were mistaken. 
The mill had not run for two days, the wheel being 
out of order ; so there had been plenty of time to trim 
the kitchen until it looked like an evergreen bower. 

Rob shivered away at a great rate and declared it 
was altogether too cold weather for him to eat his sup- 
per in the woods, and Bessie was wild with pleasure 
over it. “ Like a church,” she said. 

But they had a good time, and even Rob decided 
that the mercury had run up wonderfully before nine 
o’clock. The sugar proved as sweet and clear as could 
be wished, and when the little entertainment broke up 
with the children’s hymn, “ I am so glad that our 
Father in heaven,” and the boys went away shouting, 
“ We ’ve had a first-rate time, Miss Duncan, and we ’ll 
all be on hand next Sunday,” Hilda thought with joy, 


WILLIE. 


191 

that even if her life was one of daily, dusty toil, and her 
purse a limited one, she was rich in friends, and her 
little corner had in it many helps and brightnesses for 
others. She might yet “ be worth something to others.” 

It was one Monday night in the latter part of this 
first month of the year, that Rob and Hilda chanced to 
put their heads together over the “ house-box.” Hilda 
had just placed in it her usual bill of five dollars, and 
Rob had a larger sum than frequently, though it was 
only two dollars. 

“ Let ’s count it now, Hilda,” said Rob, for they had 
each agreed to do this only by the consent of all. 
“ Alice is all alone in the kitchen.” 

So she was called, the box emptied upon the table. 
Rob was counter, and Alice put the bills and scrip back 
in the box. 

“Ninety, ninety-two, ninety -seven dollars, all told,” 
said the boy-cashier. 

“ Is it possible ?” exclaimed the girls. 

“ And to think I might have spent all that on one 
dress,” said Hilda; “Julia Craig did last month.” 

“Julia Craig and Kate Marsh are altogether too 
intimate now-a-days,” said Rob. “ Mr. Marsh is rather 
a nice man, but he ’s growing old faster than I should 
want to see my father.” 

“ It is too bad,” said Hilda. 

“ I say, girls,” continued the boy, “ we must put 
this in the savings-bank ;” and the next day Hilda left 


192 


FATHER'S HOUSE. 


her looms for a little while, and in her clean calico 
made her way to the savings-bank. She found Mr. 
Newell, husband of her long-time teacher, who was one 
of the directors, in, and was very glad to tell him her 
business. 

“We do n’t want father to know of it, you see, sir; 
we are planning a surprise for him.” 

“Yes, yes, I will arrange it for you; and, Miss 
Duncan,” he said, as he brought her bank-book to her 
in the parlor where he had seated her, “ I am very glad 
to find there are a few prudent young people left. I 
commenced my own way very poor, and I owe it, 
under the blessing of God, to steady work and economy 
that I am now better off. Tell your brother, for me, 
that if he does not allow the use of tobacco or any 
other vice to get hold of hjm, I expect to see him a 
good business man yet, and able to give his sisters a 
pleasant home. I commenced with less than you, 
Miss Duncan. My first deposit in the bank was eighty- 
seven cents, that I earned by wheeling parcels. Hope 
we shall see you here again,” as he opened the door 
for her to leave. 

It is wonderful what an effect a bank-book has on 
people. These three young folks began to feel now as 
though they had a place in the business world. When 
Kate sneered at Hilda’s “ everlasting old dresses,” she 
thought of certain black figures opposite her name, and 
smiled serenely ; and when the grocer’s nephew 


WILLIE. 


193 


taunted the grocer’s hired boy with being only a ser- 
vant, Rob whistled unconcernedly. What did he 
care ? He had made a beginning, as Mr. Newell had 
said. 

Kate seemed to have lost all her liking for Hilda, 
and never came near her now. Indeed it was easy to 
see she avoided her; “too much preaching,” she told 
Julia Craig. 

“ I have not done anything ; she has got tired of 
me; that’s all,” Hilda said in answer to Anna one 
day. 

“ I always did wonder at your being so intimate 
with her,” returned Anna; “I did not wonder any at 
her liking you.” 

It seemed as though Anna had improved of late, 
but then Kate always was bad for her disposition. The 
three were lunching together as usual, Naomi quiet as 
of old, the others chatting. The day was bitterly cold 
outside; long icicles hung from the eaves, and the 
distant mountains glittered in the sunlight like banks 
of frost. But within, their steam-heated building was 
almost too warm for comfort, and the air, with windows 
closed, was heavier with the scent of oil and fuller of 
cotton fluff than ever. 

“ I am sorry for Kate,” said Hilda sincerely; “she 
is too smart a girl for such company as she keeps now.” 

“ It’s the old story,” broke in Naomi; “dress and 
the street and a good-for-nothing life.” 

25 


Father's House. 


194 


FATHER'S HOUSE . 


“Naomi,” asked Hilda suddenly, “ did n’t I see you 
at prayer-meeting last night ?” 

“ I do n’t know as you did.” 

“ But were n’t you there ?” persisted the girl. 

“ Yes.” ' The woman’s tone invited no remark, and 
Hilda said no more ; but there sprang up in her heart 
such a yearning for this lonely life as was never again 
to be stifled. Hilda had learned many things since she 
first invited Naomi out to that evening meeting months 
before. Mr. Agnew’s earnest words from the desk, her 
Bible study that she might be better fitted for her class, 
her prayers of faith, her new friends, and above all the 
Spirit, whose teachings she now more earnestly sought, 
had made of her Christian walk a far higher life. She 
was truly seeking now to follow in Christ’s footsteps, 
and already the blessing was in her heart. Henceforth 
Naomi felt something different, a tender interest, a 
genuine friendliness in the ways of the young girl 
toward herself, and though Hilda did not even know 
whether it was noticed or not, the seed was not being 
sown in vain. One Tuesday she even asked her to go 
to the parsonage with her that night, but this the 
woman promptly refused. 

It was a very cold evening and Hilda almost gave 
up going herself, but remembering a shy girl from Mrs. 
Newell’s class who had promised to be there, and who 
would find it dull unless some one looked after her, she 
prepared herself and went. She did not find the girl 


WILLIE. 


195 


there after all ; and after a little visiting around, Hilda 
went up to the study to finish an article she had com- 
menced at her last visit. 

She had been there but a few minutes when a rustle 
and ripple of chat on the stairs heralded the approach 
of quite a party. They came in, Connie Harris at the 
head, laughing and talking. Now since that pleasant 
evening spent at her home Hilda had not seen much 
of this young lady. She had been out of town until 
nearly Christmas, and after that, company and many 
demands upon her time had prevented. She came 
forward now and shook hands cordially, then sat down 
beside her. 

“ Now, Mr. Tranes, please find the ‘ Dream,’ ” she 
said as the others took seats near and formed a little 
group. “We have been talking of a passage in the 
‘Ancient Mariner,’ ” she added to Hilda; “and came 
in here to read it.” 

The book was soon found, but not so the reader. 
It is with elocutionists as with musicians; they are a 
capricious class and require much urging. 

“I would read in a minute if I hadn’t such a 
wretched cold,” said Connie. 

“The stereotyped excuse,” answered Mr. Tranes 
languidly; I really cannot read; I never could.” 

“ Let me have the book ; I will try,” said Connie 
finally, after every one had refused, “though you will 
think I have borrowed the voice of a frog.” v 


196 


FATHER’S HOUSE. 


She commenced the poem, but it was soon evident 
her cold had been no excuse, she really w r as too hoarse 
to read audibly. 

“ O Hilda,” she suddenly exclaimed, “ I happen 
to know you are a good reader; now go right on, 
please;” laying the book in her hand. 

Hilda, who had been listening with the deepest 
attention, would have refused if possible, but there was 
no way of escape. She took the book and began with 
trembling voice. But Connie was right, Hilda had 
that rare accomplishment of reading well, and in a few 
minutes her voice became even, and every word was 
sounded as clearly as a bell. The most perfect silence 
on the part of the others was her tribute. At the close 
there were hearty thanks and a general talk, for they 
seemed quite to have forgotten their disputed point. 

“I was proud of you,” Connie whispered; and 
“ You read beautifully,” another said. 

Hilda remembered her mother. How often had 
she heard her say, “ My child, you can be a good 
reader by doing the best you can to improve, and then 
you will always have one talent acceptable to all.” 
She thanked her for it now. 

Presently Mr. Tranes, the only gentleman of the 
party, was called away, and Mrs. Agnew, who had 
come in during the last of the reading, took his place 
in the circle, and the conversation drifted to the subject 
of dress and housekeeping. 


WILLIE. 


197 


“ I am not a bit of a strong-minded woman, and 
don’t wish to vote,” Jessie Clayton was saying, “but I 
do wish some one would be courageous enough to set 
the fashion for a different way of living, so that we 
might not be quite the slaves we are.” Jessie Clayton 
was Mr. Trask’s older daughter, and the only married 
lady of the party excepting Mrs. Agnew. Indeed, there 
were but three others left now : Millie Hayward, who 
was her father’s housekeeper, and cared for five younger 
brothers and sisters; Margie Trask, who had just 
come in; and Eva Holmes, a dainty young lady, much 
petted and indulged by her parents, whose only child 
she was. 

“ I agree with you,” said Millie. “ I had an idea 
once that it was possible to be a housekeeper and yet 
keep a place in other departments also ; but unless one 
possesses more physical strength than most of us have, 
one is in danger of becoming a mere housekeeper and 
nothing else. I am losing my music ; my sketching- 
pencils lie untouched ; even a book that requires any 
thought is often too great a weariness : and yet I am 
better off than many ; I have the same two girls that 
mamma had, and they are willing and faithful. The 
fault lies in us.” 

“Why do n’t you ladies inaugurate a reform then?” 
asked Margie promptly. “You may as well be martyrs 
as any one.” 

“Easier said than done, my sister,” replied Mrs, 


1 98 FA THER'S HO USE. 

Clayton. “ Now there is the matter of tea-partied. No 
one likes to have her friends visit her better than I" do; 
in fact I can’t get along without them, and my husband 
feels the same ; and yet I must work in the hot kitchen 
all the morning, and very likely up to the time to dress 
for my guests; and when they come at about five 
o’clock, I am so tired I can’t enjoy them. Then, just 
as I am getting rested a little, it is time to go out and 
see to the tea-table. If they stay, I do have a little 
pleasure in the evening, but am so weary on the whole 
that I cannot sleep well, and it takes me all the next 
day to get over it. Now that is not my idea of a good 
time at all, but it is a true case; isn’t it, Mrs. Agnew?” 

“ I am afraid it is,” answered that lady. 

“They manage their tea companies differently in 
England,” said Millie Hayward. “ I was invited to one 
while there. My cousin said we must be there by 
three o’clock at latest, and take our fancy-work. We 
found our hostess in her beautiful drawing-room, with 
several other ladies, and we had the most delightful 
two hours possible. I was only a girl, so I could listen 
undisturbed. They talked about books, and pictures, 
and people, compared fancy-work patterns, and looked 
over views, but did n’t seem to have any domestic 
cares to worry about. At half past five a servant roll- 
ed a table into the centre of the library, which opened 
from the drawing-room by wide doors. She placed on 
it a silver trencher with a loaf of bread, and a silver 


WILLIE. 


199 - 


dish of butter, then a tea-urn and a little spirit-furnace 
with a tea-pot boiling over it. The gentleman of the 
house with a friend had come in, and we all sat down 
at the table, when the gentleman cut the bread and 
passed it, and the lady made the delicious tea. The 
servant came in later with a tray, and placed beside 
each plate a saucer of East India preserves; and again 
she came with a plate of cheese, another of buns and 
a basket of pound-cake. We partook in pure enjoy- 
ment; our hearts were not aching for our worn-out 
hostess, and we feared no sick headache for ourselves 
on the morrow.” 

“Well, Millie, why do n’t you set a sensible exam- 
ple ?” asked Margie again. 

“ Then there ’s the sewing,” added Millie. 

The ladies all sighed in chorus at this. 

“It is more work to dress each of my two little 
ones,” said Mrs. Clayton, “ than it is myself, and that 
is bad enough with the present fashions, I get so tired 
of ruffle, and tuck, and plait, that I am pretty nearly 
discouraged.” 

“You will find it worse as they grow older,” said 
Millie encouragingly. “ My Nellie, ten years old, is a 
burden in that line. I have just finished a dress for 
her ruffled with narrow ruffles to the waist, and I bound 
every one of them by hand, because machine-stitching 
is no longer fashionable ; but, oh, how I did begrudge 
the time.” 


200 


FATHER'S HOUSE. 


“ What geese we women are,” put in Margie. “ Here 
we sit and bewail the state of things, as though we had 
no control over it ; and yet every one of us has at least 
a little influence.” 

“What is that you say, Hilda, about corners?” 
asked Connie, turning to the girl beside her. 

“ Why, only that the main thing we each of us have 
to do is to keep our own little corner swept as clean as 
we can,” answered Hilda blushing, and embarrassed at 
the sudden address ; but glancing up as she finished 
she met Mrs. Agnew’s eye, and her lips smiled approval. 

“ I like that, Miss Duncan,” she said eagerly. 
“Sometimes it seems as though there was such a world 
full of work, and Mr. Agnew is so full of missionary 
zeal, that I carry a great burden. I am glad to hear 
you speak about our own corners. For this matter of 
dress I do think is quite a question. It does not seem 
to me just as it used to. Since I realize more how 
much hard work and suffering there is in the world, I 
do n’t think so much about dress. Besides, Connie 
and Margie have helped me in that. They do n’t seem 
to make that their first thought always.” 

“I have often wished I had their independence,” 
said Eva Holmes. 

“So have I,” added Millie; “I don’t believe any 
of the rest of us would have had the courage to wear 
but one dress during the winter to these Tuesday 
evenings, but Jessie told me of that resolve on your part.” 


XVILLIE. 


201 


“ Why, yes, here is another,” said Connie, showing 
a very unusual amount of confusion for her; “here is 
Hilda ; she has come in the one ;” for Hilda still wore 
the black cashmere. 

“ But that is a very different matter,” spoke up 
Hilda ; “ I had to wear the same, for I could not afford 
another.” 

“ But you were not obliged to come at all,” replied 
Connie just as earnestly. “ There are plenty who 
make their dress an excuse for not coming more fre- 
quently, and I do think it has taken more courage for 
you to wear one dress because you could not afford 
another, than it has for me when people knew I could.” 

“I think you are right there,” said Millie; “and I 
trust Miss Duncan will pardon me if I say, I know of 
one who would have had less enjoyment if she had 
had less courage ; my little brother Eddie came one 
evening, and the special pleasure he had was what 
Miss Duncan gave him, and the story she told him.” 
Eddie Hayward was one of Hilda’s class. 

“ But, Connie, are n’t you going to be as brave as 
Miss Duncan,” asked Eva, “and tell us the secret 
reason of this resolve on your part and Margie’s?” 

Connie gathered up her words with an effort, for it 
was hard for her to speak her deeper thoughts. 

“ Margie and I talked it all over, and we made up 
our minds that at such a gathering at our minister’s 
every one ought to come, and to be happy in coming, 
26 


Father’s House. 


202 


FATHER'S HOUSE. 


but only a few could afford to make a dress affair of it. 
It would be a constant weariness to those who did, 
making real work of it, and would give unhappiness 
to those who could not, and keep some away. So we 
said — Margie originated it — that as for us, we would 
come through this winter in these same dresses. But 
I did not suppose any one would notice it especially.” 

“ It has been noticed,” said Eva ; “I have heard two 
or three say they could afford to come in the same dress 
again and again if you and Margie thought one was 
enough; and I don’t believe I should have come 
to-night, and I do love to dearly, if I had not thought 
of it myself, for I have n’t as many changes as usual 
this winter ;” and that admission on the part of Eva 
Holmes was as brave as anything that had been said 
that evening. 

But Mrs. Agnew was wiping the tears from her 
eyes. “ Why have n’t some of you told me of this 
before?” she asked tremulously. “We have wanted 
to do everything for these evenings, and have prayed 
over them a great deal, and yet I never thought of it 
in this light, and perhaps my silly fondness for dress 
has kept some away. I am so sorry.” 

“My dear Mrs. Agnew,” exclaimed Connie, “please 
don’t; we were only speaking for ourselves.” 

“ Never mind,” said the little lady shaking her 
head, “ I ’ve received my lesson through the rest of 
you, and I see what a good one it is too ; though I 


WILLIE. 


203 


can tell you the ground was well prepared already, for 
I had had you in my mind, Connie, and Margie, and 
Hilda too ; and Louis and I had spoken of it several 
times how active and efficient you each were, and yet 
you did not seem to be doing things for effect. But 
they are getting ready to sing for the evening always 
closed with a hymn. 

“Shall we consider the members of this circle 
pledged, then, to simple tea parties and plainer dress 
in the future?” asked Mrs. Clayton as they rose, and, 
“ Ay, ay,” was answered from the others, while Nellie 
added, “We shall expect the first example from you, 
Jessie ; one kind of cake and cold bread.” 

“ What a relief,” remarked Jessie, laughing; “come 
to-morrow, do, at three o’clock, sharp, remember.” 

Mrs. Agnew stepped back to Hilda and put her 
hand on her arm. “What day do you have most 
leisure ?” she asked. 

“ Saturdays I am out of the mill at four o’clock.” 
she answered. 

“ Will you come and take tea with Mr. Agnew and 
myself next Saturday at six ?” 

Hilda hesitated. “ I could, but — ” 

“No buts, please; and your father also; we shall 
look for you without fail.” 

“How can I, Alice?” Hilda said at home; “we 
cannot ask them to visit here you know.” 

“She did not ask you to, did she?” said Alice. 


204 


FATHER'S HOUSE. 


“Why, of course not.” 

“ Well, go then ; she would not ask you if she did 
not wish for you.” 

And they went and were warmly welcomed. They 
had a pleasant conversation in which Hilda was proud 
of her father, a simple tea, “ on the English plan,” 
Mrs. Agnew said, and then, after the evening train 
came in, both gentlemen went out on business and did 
not return until nine. Mrs. Agnew and Hilda enjoyed 
alone the cosey room and a talk that was the beginning 
of a life friendship between the two. The lady found 
Hilda far beyond her in many things, while her own 
culture and grace were a delight to the other. 

Nor was this friendship fruitless of solid benefit 
to others. In plans for working among the poorer 
people, who of course were mostly connected with the 
mills, the pastor and his wife found Hilda an invaluable 
aid and adviser, and she spent, as time went on, many 
another pleasant hour in the parsonage. 

On her part she had the visit that she had said 
“could not be” from them quite soon after all. It was 
about two weeks after this, that Alice delayed preparing 
tea one night until Mr. Duncan should come in on 
the 6 : 30 train. That same evening Mr. and Mrs. Ag- 
new had been out till late calling, and were hastening 
home, when the pastor thought of a paper which he 
wanted to leave with Hilda for her class, and knocked 
at their door just as the family were sitting down to 


WILLIE . 


205- 


table. The kitchen was clean as Alice could make it, 
the fire bright, and the supper of baked potatoes, 
chicken, and corn-cake, looked tempting to hungry 
people. 

Mr. Duncan invited them to sit down to supper, 
and Mr. Agnew declined so reluctantly that it was 
evident what he desired, so with a good laugh a few 
more plates were added, the other corn-cake was taken 
from the oven, and the unexpected guests sat down, 
and proved their appreciation of Alice’s cooking. 

“I was so glad for father,” Alice said afterward to 
her sister ; “ I never saw him more pleased over any- 
thing.” 

“Yes; he feels it that he is not in a situation to do 
things as others do,” was the reply; “if we only had 
one more room.” 

“Just wait until we get into the new house,” re- 
marked Alice gayly; and that set them off on the 
never- tiring subject, and the planning, which had been 
so often repeated that the new house began to seem 
quite like a real cottage, no longer a “castle in the air.” 

The winter slipped away at last, and spring drew 
on apace. As the melting snows increased the streams 
that came down from the hillsides, and the buds be- 
gan to swell in the valleys, and the children brought 
in handfuls of early violets, and the spring dulness got 
“ into her bones,” Hilda longed as never before for a 
free country life. She remembered the dells that her 


206 


FATHER'S HOUSE. 


cousins had pointed out as hiding-places for the trailing- 
arbutus, and when a letter from Agnes brought down 
a bunch of the fragrant, delicate treasures, she kissed 
them as old friends. Work in the mill grew hard, and 
not even the “ new house ” aroused much enthusiasm. 

“I don’t know what ails me,” she said to Lissa 
one day; “I am sure I never was so stupid before.” 

“You’ve worked hard, lass, in both body and 
thoughts of late. I ’m not sure but you ’ve minded to 
do more than the Lord wills for you. Leave off your 
reading and go out in the fresh air more ; the days are 
lengthening now. Follow nature and take a little 
change.” 

And change came, though in a different way from 
what they had planned. Hilda went out to Sabbath- 
school one lovely spring day, though she had not mus- 
tered resolution enough for church service. She found 
the boys restless and hard to manage, jumping up to 
peep out of the open window and full of questions far 
enough away from the subject. Even Willie seemed a 
little languid. At last the lessons were over and the time 
for reciting verses had come. Hilda had not attended 
to this as usual, and there was not one recited until the 
turn came last to Willie. The word was “love,” and 
in his clear tones he recited, “For God so loved the 
world that he gave his only begotten Son, that whoso- 
ever believeth in him should not perish, but have ever- 
lasting life.” 


WILLIE . 


20 7 


“What makes you always get a verse, Willie?” 
asked Eddie Hayward. “ Does your father make 
you ? I ’d hate to always have to.” 

“My father doesn’t make me,” answered Willie, 
lifting his clear blue eyes in surprise. “ I like to learn 
them, and say them, too, and I think it ’s right.” 

Hilda had heard the question and answer. “ I wish 
I had that boy’s courage to do right,” she thought, and 
knew not how in after-years she would hold the mem- 
ory of that frank look and those brave words. 

That was the last Sabbath Hilda was to sit before 
her class for some time. The next morning little Bes- 
sie was taken with diphtheria, which had already 
proved fatal to several children in town. It was a very 
severe case, and Hilda procured a substitute in the 
mill, and took up her long watch in the sick-room. 
There were but few to help, for most of the Duncans’ 
friends were fearful of the terrible disease for them- 
selves or their little ones. Alice and Hilda were faith- 
ful nurses. Never before had they known how much 
this life was worth in their home, how lonely it would 
be if the little one were called away from them. There 
had been plans, too, for this child, so many years 
younger than the others. Her life should be different 
from theirs, they had fondly said. Her sweet voice for 
song should be carefully trained and fitted for use. 
And for a time it seemed as though the Father, having 
heard their desire, was about to give her the angels for 


208 


FATHERS HOUSE. 


her teachers. But at last, after long doubt, the scales 
turned again towards the human hearts praying for 
her, and they heard the welcome words, “ With great 
care she may live now,” from the kind old doctor. 

But those were almost as trying days that followed, 
when the frail spark of life must be fanned with the 
greatest care, and the child, weary and restless, taxed 
every power to the utmost. The last days of spring 
had gone by, and the first week of the month of roses 
came in before Bessie was able to care for herself and 
to go out again to play in the air. Then they saw her 
gain daily, and now Hilda had a new plan. 

“ You and Bessie must accept Aunt Rachel’s invi- 
tation,” she said to Alice, “ and go up there for a week 
or two. The doctor says it will be the curing of Bes- 
sie, and you need it almost as much ; I do n’t want you 
sick, too. Katy will stay in the mill for me, and it will 
be nothing for me to get something to eat just for us 
three ; so you must go at once while I am resting.” 

And she carried her point. One Thursday morn- 
ing Alice and Bessie, both looking as though they 
needed just such care as they were going to get, were 
bundled off, and as soon as the carriage was out of 
sight, and Mr. Duncan and Rob had hurried off to 
their work, Hilda slowly dragged herself up stairs, and 
passing by the yet uncleared table with scarcely a 
glance, went on to her own room, and in five minutes 
was fast asleep on the bed. She slept at least two 


WILLIE. 


209 


hours, then woke and attended to her work, got dinner 
and cleared up after that, and again went to bed for 
another long nap. From th# she woke with a head- 
ache and a good-for-nothing feeling, that sent her out 
of doors after tea to see if she could not shake it off. 

It was a lovely evening, the sun just sinking low, 
the air balmy and scented with early roses. Hilda 
walked much farther than she had intended, and pres- 
ently found herself near Mr. Trask’s pleasant home. It 
occurred to Hilda to stop and inquire for Willie, as 
Rob had said he was not at Sabbath-school, and some 
one told him he was sick. 

“ How is Willie ?” she asked of Mrs. Trask, who 
met her at the door. 

“ Willie is very sick, but he will be glad to see you. 
Please come right in.” 

Hilda followed her through to the sick-room. Wil- 
lie was lying with head propped high on pillows, breath- 
ing in the hard, labored way she knew so well, but his 
whole face was radiant when he saw who was coming. 

“ I am so glad, Miss Duncan, so glad,” the little fel- 
low said huskily, pressing the hand he had taken to his 
lips, and then motioned her to sit down on the side of 
the bed. She did so, and looked into the pure bright 
face of the little lad with eyes from which it was hard 
to keep back the tears, for even to her inexperience 
there seemed to rest over it a shadow whose coming 
darkens the faces of our loved ones but once. 

27 


Father’s House, 


210 


FATHER'S HOUSE. 


“ Are you suffering, Willie ?” she asked. 

“ Not much ; only I ’m so tired.” 

Mr. Trask, who had Jpeen sitting at the other side 
of the bed, came around by her, facing the western 
window. “ What a grand sunset we are having,” he 
said. 

“ O papa, lift me up and let me see it,” said Willie; 
and his father turned him about and held him so that 
he could look at the just disappearing sun and at the 
magnificent banks of clouds of every tint that were 
glowing and flaming above the horizon. 

Long and intently he gazed, until the golden and 
crimson hues were settling into more sombre shades, 
and then with a little sigh, that was like a lingering 
farewell, lay back on his pillow and closed his eyes. 
No one spoke, and the hush in the room was very 
deep. Willie was the first to break the silence. 

“ It ’s almost Sunday, is n’t it, Miss Duncan ?” 

“Yes, dear,” Hilda replied. 

“ I ’ve learned my verse for class,” the little boy 
went on. 

“ Have you, Willie? what is it?” 

“The word is ‘Christ,’ you know; papa told me 
when he came home; and my verse is, ‘Jesus Christ, 
the same yesterday, and to-day, and for ever.’ It ’s a 
good one, is n’t it ?” 

“ It is very good,” said Hilda, but the face that had 
been all animation was growing very pale, and the lids 


WILLIE . 


21 


were drooping over ' the blue eyes. Hilda saw it was 
time for him to rest. 

“ I am going now, Willie,” she said. 

“ Good-night,” said the little boy, faintly, “ I ’ll say 
my verse to you again in the morning;” and Hilda 
went quietly away. 

As the evening wore on it was evident to the watch- 
ing friends that the young life was ebbing fast away. 
“ Shall we tell him ?” asked the stricken father. 

“ I think you had better,” said a friend ; “he seems 
so clear and conscious, and it may be pleasant for you 
to remember afterward.” 

So, calming his own great anguish, the father asked, 
“Willie, do you know where Charlie and Robbie” — 
two little playmates who had died from the same dis- 
ease — “ have gone ?” 

“Yes, sir; gone to heaven — gone to Jesus.” 

“ And do you love Jesus, too ?” 

“Yes, sir, Ido.” 

“And does Jesus love you, Willie?” 

“Yes, sir, I think he does — a little.” 

Once after a little quiet he asked, “ What do they 
mean, papa, by the resurrection ?” and listened atten- 
tively to the few simple words in which his father ex- 
plained the great change. * 

As the night drew near its turn his sufferings in- 
creased, but there were no words of complaint, none of 
impatience. With the first hour of the new day began 


212 


FA THER'S HOUSE. 


Willie’s eternal day, and then, as they closed the blue 
eyes from sight for ever, and folded the little hands 
that had been so ready in their service for others, they 
thought with great joy of the simple faith that had 
quelled all fears in the child’s heart, and made him 
able to rejoice in his unseen Friend. 

Willie’s had been brief service, but it was not for- 
gotten. Through the weeks that followed there were 
many that remembered the boy, so full of activity and 
glee, and yet never too busy for a kind deed for others; 
so full of frolic, but never forgetful of the gentle acts of 
courtesy ; prompt in his place in the class-room or the 
Sabbath-school, and ready to do whatever he knew 
was right ; a truly noble, manly boy ; who shall esti- 
mate the fruit the little life bore ! 


WAITING. 


213 


CHAPTER XIII. 

WAITING. 

Hilda had gone home without realizing to what 
this sickness might tend. The boy was very ill, and 
she did not seem able to look beyond that at present ; 
the future could not hold her thoughts at all. Rob 
thought it was the sickness of her favorite that made 
her so absent-minded, but really she could think of him 
but little at a time. She was ready to sleep again as 
soon as her head touched the pillow, and all things 
were soon forgotten. 

She was roused the next morning by Rob at her 
door asking if she was worse, and if they should get 
their own breakfast. 

“ No, no,” called Hilda, “ I ’ll be out directly;” and 
then her brother added in a lower tone, “ Willie is dead 
this morning, Hilda.” 

That was all that was needed. Hilda lay back 
quiet and stunned, her little remaining strength gone 
from her limbs, and only the sad words, “Willie is 
dead !” mechanically repeating themselves over and 
over in her tired and aching head. 

Rob, impatient to get away, got out the coffeepot, 
and put in it about a week’s supply of coffee ; then 


214 


FATHER'S HOUSE. 


filled the pot to the cover with cold water, and set it on 
the stove. Every two or three minutes after he peeped 
in, expecting to see it boil, varying further the monot- 
ony of waiting by setting on the table all the cold pro- 
visions he could find. Fortunately there were some 
baked beans among them, and despairing of anything 
better, he made his breakfast from these and bread 
and butter, and hurried off. Mr. Duncan began to be 
impatient too, and went to Hilda’s door and called her. 
He heard a faint “Come in,” and opened the door. 
Hilda’s face, almost as white as the pillow, frightened 
him terribly. 

“ Hilda, my child, are you sick?” he exclaimed. 

“Not much, father; my head aches and I am so 
tired. I was just going to get up when Rob told me 
about Willie, and that took the strength out of me. 
But you have n’t had your breakfast yet, father ?” 

“ Never mind. I ’m going to get the doctor for 
you, Hilda.” 

“ Oh no, not just for a headache. I ’m ready to 
get up now.” 

Her father said no more, but went out of the room 
and straight for the physician, stopping at the door 
near by and asking a neighbor to go in and stay with 
Hilda until he could get back. Mrs. Martin had fin- 
ished her breakfast, and went in at once. 

She found Hilda just where her father had left her, 
and beginning to be conscious that all her bones ached 


WAITING. 


21 5 


in a dull way as well as her head. Mrs. Martin saw at 
once that she was a sick girl, and proceeded to make 
her comfortable and to prepare her father’s breakfast. 
When Mr. Duncan came in, he said he had got excused 
from his work so long as necessary, and soon after Dr. 
Thorne’s heavy step and friendly face came in at the 
door. 

“Well, well, it’s you this time, is it?” said the old 
gentleman, making his way to Hilda’s bed. “ What do 
you mean by this ? I ’ve looked after all the rest, but 
you’ve always kept shy of my pills and powders. 
Wanted to see the old doctor here again, did you, 
eh?” and all the time he was talking he was feeling the 
pulse and looking her face over with his keen profes- 
sional eye. 

“There isn’t much the matter with me, is there, 
doctor ?” Hilda asked anxiously. 

“ No, I think not. You are run down, over-taxed, 
and so forth. Want to take a few of my pleasant 
doses, that ’s all.” 

“But I sha’n’t be sick long, shall I, doctor? I 
must get to work as soon as I can.” 

The old gentleman looked at her quietly over his 
spectacles while he continued to mix a powder with 
syrup in a spoon. “ See here, Hilda, my first advice 
to you is to be patient. I do n’t think you ’ve any very 
severe symptoms unless you aggravate them, but you 
may have to lie on that pillow and take a long rest. 


2l6 


FATHER'S HOUSE. 


Now I ’ve always thought you a pretty sensible girl, 
and I do n’t want you to disappoint me this time. Just 
don’t think at all any more than you’re obliged to. 
Sleep all you can, and throw my good things down 
your throat instead of out of the window, and we ’ll get 
you around as soon as is best;” and with a few more 
charges and directions the kind old physician left for 
other patients. 

“What do you think of her, doctor?” asked Mr. 
Duncan, following him out to the stairs. 

“ I see nothing at all alarming in her case,” was the 
answer. “ She has a slow fever hanging on her, and 
wants good nursing and quiet.” 

“ I wish Alice was here,” said her father. 

“ I do n’t,” answered the doctor ; “ I ’m very glad 
she ’s out of the way, as she ’d have to take her turn 
too. Let her stay and get well braced up by mountain 
air, and then she ’ll be safe to come back. Meanwhile 
there’s Mrs. Fisher over at the Town House you can 
get to come and stay, and she ’ll be glad to do it. I ’m 
going out that way this forenoon myself, and will bring 
her with me if you say so.” 

“ I wish you would, sir,” said Mr. Duncan, greatly 
relieved ; and so it was arranged. And Hilda, relieved 
of her fear that Alice would lose her pleasant and need- 
ed rest, obeyed directions to the letter, and slept so 
soundly that Mrs. Martin’s “looking in” was entirely 
unnecessary. Before noon the doctor’s buggy stopped 


WAITING. 


21 7 


at their home, and Mrs. Fisher was installed in her 
place. She proved to be a quiet, inoffensive person, 
kind-hearted and ready, just what was needed in such 
a sick-room as Hilda’s. 

For it proved to be, as the doctor thought, a slow, 
feverish reaction of the overtaxed system, and a tardy 
gathering up of the threads of health and strength. It 
was a new lesson too. Hilda had always been so well 
and strong, that at times it was very hard to reconcile 
herself to this change. Not at first, for those were days 
of dreamy lethargy or feverish restlessness. But after 
the first week, when she was obliged to lie quiet, be- 
cause too weak to sit or stand, and to wait the quick- 
ening of the sluggish blood in her veins, and the easing 
of the dull ache in her head with what patience she 
might, she would lie nearly all day watching Mrs. 
Fisher moving about her duties in the outer room with 
utter indifference as to what she did. 

But Hilda found she had many friends in those 
days. First and most faithful of all, Lissa, who came 
every day and brought or made some little delicacy 
for her wavering appetite, far beyond Mrs. Fisher’s 
skill; who made up the bed more deftly and found 
easier positions for her poor head than any one else, and 
who always left with her some thought or text that was 
like a crumb of comfort in her heart. Margie Trask 
came too, with choice fruit or flowers, her sombre dress 
telling its own tale of mourning. And Mrs. Agnew 

Father’s House, 28 


2lS 


FATHER'S HOUSE. 


came with cheering, hopeful words; and Mrs. Ferguson 
wanted the privilege of “ brushing her hair every day;” 
and her Sunday-school boys went fishing on Satur- 
days, and caught the smallest of fish and sent them to 
her ; so that in her drowsy way Hilda realized that she 
was not at all forgotten by the world in which for a 
time she had ceased to bear an active part. 

One night after she had lain there about two weeks, 
just at dusk Mrs. Fisher came in, and said there was a 
strange woman at the door asking to see her. 

“ Let her come in,” said Hilda, who was alone, and 
feeling at her best ; and in a moment the stranger was 
by her side. 

“O Naomi, I am so glad,” she exclaimed, putting 
out her hand ; “I have thought of you ever so many 
times.” 

“Have you?” answered Naomi, and then added 
quickly, “ I had no right to come, and did n’t know as 
you ’d see me, but it seemed to me as though I must at 
last for the mill is dreadful lonesome these days.” 

And Hilda found to her surprise that those were 
the most welcome words that she had heard since she 
had been sick : she was really missed in her daily place. 

“ How are the girls ?” she asked, “ Anna and Peggy 
and all of them ? Kate ’s been in once, but she could 
stay only a minute, and did n’t tell me much.” 

“Peggy asks for you every day, and Anna said 
to-day she wished she dared to come and see you.” 


WAITING. 


219 


“ Tell her to come; I ’ll be very glad. But what 
a cold you have, Naomi.” 

“I got wet last night,” answered the woman, draw- 
ing her shawl about her, though it was a warm night. 
“ I had been at the meeting.” 

Hilda took her hand again quickly and pressed it 
without a word. The tears sprang to her eyes; only 
it was too dark for Naomi to see that. 

“ I wish you could do something for Kate,” the 
woman said after a few moments of silence. 

“ Why ?” asked Hilda. 

“ I do n’t like the way she ’s going on ; she stays 
out late nights, and looks all jaded out. Then she 
talks and laughs loudest of anybody in the mill, and 
they say she ’s running up bills at the stores ever so 
much over her wages.” 

“ I ’m sorry,” said Hilda, “ but I have not had any 
influence of late with Kate. She got in with those 
girls, and I think they ’ve hurt her. She thinks I ’m 
too quiet for her now.” 

Naomi was silent and Hilda was tired, so no more 
was said till Rob came into the kitchen and the woman 
rose to go. “ May I come again ?” she asked. 

“ I shall be glad to have you,” was the answer. 

“ I will then, and — and — do n’t forget Kate.” 

“Poor Kate!” thought Hilda, when she was alone 
again, “ but I do n’t see what I can do for her,” and 
then, tired out, she was soon lost in uneasy dreams. 


220 


FATHER'S HOUSE. 


The next week Alice and Bessie came home. Rob 
got the letter naming Wednesday as the day of their 
arrival, but Hilda was not told until a few hours before 
train -time, for fear of exciting her. And the precaution 
proved a wise one, for when the two girls did come, 
Hilda’s greeting of them was a burst of tears. 

“ I didn’t expect to have you come home and find 
me like this,” she said through her sobs. 

Alice, who had been cautioned all the way home 
from the depot to be “ sure and not cry or make a fuss 
like a girl over Hilda,” tried in vain to control her own 
emotion, but broke down and sobbed in concert with 
her sister, until Bess created a diversion by remarking 
that she wished she “had stayed up on the mountain 
at Cousin Ruth’s, who didn’t cry at every little thing,” 
and if “ Hilda would shut her eyes and open her 
mouth,” she would drop something in, Hilda never 
could guess what, but it was hard, and oh, so sweet; 
upon which Rob volunteered to act in Hilda’s place, 
and opened his mouth to such an alarming extent that 
Bess pretended to get ready to crawl in herself. And 
by that time Alice had wiped her eyes and got ready 
to “ behave herself.” 

“ And to think that I ’ve never known a word about 
your being sick ! When Rob’s first letter came, you 
know, he said you were tired and had gone to bed for 
the night, and he had taken a literary fit.” 

“ Did n’t tell you, did I,” laughed Rob, “ that it was 


WAITING. 


221 


about seven o’clock? You might have thought she ’d 
gone to bed early.” 

“ And then in the other,” continued Alice, “ he said 
you were sitting by him — ” 

“ She was, on the bed with pillows behind her,” 
again interrupted Rob. 

“ And everything was what you said and messages 
from you, and I concluded you were busy with your 
sewing. But I told Agnes I was afraid you had gone 
into the mill and I must hurry home.” 

“Mrs. Fisher can’t make toast like this,” Hilda 
whispered as her sister uncovered a slice of that dainty, 
and set beside it a saucer of the sweetest meadow 
strawberries, that Walter had gathered before breakfast 
that morning “ expressly for her.” 

“ And, oh, if you could just have seen Shep bring 
in the basket in his mouth and set it down on the 
floor,” cried Bess. “ I did hate to leave Shep.” 

“ And he and Fanny Furbelow were great friends,” 
remarked Alice mischievously. 

“ Why, Alice, after they got acquainted they 
were.” 

“ You mean, he was with what was left of her,” 
replied her sister. “ Fanny F. was the only one with 
whom the mountain air did not seem to agree. She 
has been up for repairs a number of times, and I think 
has an entirely new set of limbs.” 

“ The air ol* something certainly seems to have 


222 


FATHER'S HOUSE. 


agreed with you,” said Mr. Duncan to Alice ; “ I never 
saw you look better.” 

“ And I never felt half so well,” answered Alice. 
“ Why, the very breath of the mountain air seemed to 
go clear to the tips of my fingers, and I have felt like 
flying ever since.” 

“ And how she did eat, papa,” put in Bess. 

“I do n’t see how you found time to look at me, 
you were so busy with your own plate,” returned Alice, 
amid the laugh that followed. “ But I ’m ready for 
work now, any way.” 

It proved that a cousin of Mrs. Fisher’s, living near, 
was anxious to have her come and help her a while, 
and as the sleeping accommodations at the Duncans’ 
were limited she went away soon after supper. Mr. 
Duncan and Rob both went out, Bessie’s heavy eyes 
were soon shut in slumber, and the close of the long 
summer twilight found the sisters alone. 

“ I did not know how glad I should be to have you 
back again,” said Hilda; “I think I shall get well 
now.” 

“ I hope so, you poor dear ; how hard these three 
weeks have been for you while I have been having 
such a splendid time.” 

“ Mrs. Fisher has been kind as she could be,” con- 
tinued Hilda, “ but she did not fill the lonesome spot. 
No one but my sister could do that.” 

Alice- gave her a long kiss for answer. 


WAITING. 


223 


“ And, Alice, think of the house ; it has n’t grown 
a bit since you went away, or all this summer either.” 

“ But you are not to blame for that, Hilda.” 

“ I know, but it ’s just as hard to bear.” 

“ Why, no, it is n’t ; things do n’t hurt so if we are 
not in fault about them.” 

“ But I expected to have accomplished so much by 
this time,” persisted Hilda. 

Alice saw that her sister was growing excited, and 
changed the subject. 

“ And father has been well all the time ? How 
thankful we ought to be. He never was well before 
for almost a year, since I can remember; and Hilda, 
Cousin Ruth is going to bring him a cheese this fall.” 

“ Is she coming down ?” 

“ Yes, just for a day or two, on her way to her sis- 
ter’s at L ; wont it be nice?” And soon after, 

pleading her own weariness, but really on Hilda’s ac- 
count, Alice refused to talk any longer and addressed 
herself to sleep. 

The next morning things began “to seem like home 
again,” Rob said. Alice went about in her bright, busy 
way, having a great “clearing-up time” in pantry and 
kitchen, and dropping into Hilda’s room every little 
while to give her some scrap of news from her moun- 
tain friends, or just to smooth back her hair, or arrange 
the curtain a little differently — anything to cheer up the 
invalid a little. 


224 


FATHER'S HOUSE. 


And for a day or two Hilda, under the new influ- 
ence, did seem much better, and even sat up for an 
hour or two at a time. But as the summer days grew 
more fervid in their heat she lost her new energy and 
even her little strength. 

“It is as I expected,” said Dr. Thorne; “the fever 
hasn’t left her yet; I think, too, she is worrying at 
being shut up so long. I wish she would just give up 
thinking.” 

Lissa was watching, too, and began to think it time 
for Hilda to mend. She came every day still, and left 
many a strong word for her to think upon in the long 
hours of wakefulness that had followed those first weeks 
of lethargy. 

“And how is the bairn feeling to-night?” she asked, 
coming in at the close of a sultry day, and taking the 
fan from Alice’s weary hand. “ Go ye out for a little,” 
she said to the latter, “ and take the little one with you 
for a walk. I do n’t want to see you lose the roses you 
got* on the hillside. Rob ’s below ; he said he could 
go with you.” 

“ When is Miss Connie coming home ?” asked Hilda. 

“In a week or near ; she made inquiry for you in 
her last letter, Mrs. Harris said.” 

“ That was kind of her,” said Hilda ; “ I should be 
glad to see her again.” 

“You have many pleasant thoughts to dwell upon, 
bairn,” remarked Lissa. 


WAITING. 


225 


“ And some not so pleasant, perhaps,” replied Hilda. 

“You might have been too sick for any thought or 
care,” remarked the woman gravely; “it is of the 
Lord’s will.” 

“ Do you know, Lissa, I have thought sometimes 
that might have been easier than this long, half-way 
sickness. I ’m so tired of it, Lissa.” 

“ That may well be, bairn. But will you tell me 
some of the unpleasant thoughts that bide your com- 
pany ? It can’t be your sister, for a better one is not 
to be found. What is it, lass ?” 

“O Lissa, I am afraid it’s my own impatience. 
You know, just as we were getting along so nicely in 
our plans, there came Bess’ sickness, and now mine, 
and it seems such a long time to give just for nothing, 
and when there is so much to do, too.” 

“ But it is not a long time to give to the Lord, is it, 
if he asks for it ?” 

“ Why, no, Lissa, I would n’t dare say that ; but I 
thought I was just finding out ways to serve him.” 

“ The Lord has different ways of using our time, 
bairn. Suppose he came to you now in my place and 
asked you if you were willing to do his will in the mat- 
ter of your time, what would you tell him ?” 

“ I should try to tell him, yes.” 

“And suppose, then, he’d say you could give it 
him best by lying here patient and quiet until his time 
came for you to rise ; what then ?” 

29 


Father’s House, 


226 


FATHER'S HOUSE. 


“ But I can’t make myself patient, Lissa ; I have 
tried.” 

“ No, but the Lord can make you.” 

“ How do you know that ?” 

“ The Word says, ‘ Thou wilt keep him in perfect 
peace whose mind is stayed on thee.’ ” 

“ I do n’t see how that helps me, Lissa.” 

“You have a care, bairn, and a wish ; it ’s about the 
house for the father you had hoped to win. Now do 
you not see that if you stay yourself on the Lord’s will, 
for you the peace and rest will come ?” 

“ But I never thought of his peace being my own 
patience. I thought I must grow patient before I ’d be 
ready to be at peace.” 

“ Would you think the little wee infant must stop 
crying before the mother’s arms would be willing to 
quiet it?” 

“ Why, no, of course not.” 

“ Does n’t the first moan of her bairn catch her ear, 
and draw out her arms to it ; and is n’t the love of the 
dear Master for his own to the full as strong and deep? 
and if he sees you longing for his help and upbearing, 
though the desire be of the faintest, wont he stretch out 
the ‘ everlasting arms ’ and draw you close and closer 
the more you have need of him ?” 

Hilda did not answer, and after a little Lissa con- 
tinued : “ I think, Hilda, the Lord had a little time all 
for yourself, and you were so busy and hurried you did 


WAITING. 


22 7 


not heed him, and so he let you bide here a time to feel 
him near. I ’ve often heard you longing for some 
friend that would satisfy you, and now I think you have 
a chance to get acquainted with One whose friendship 
is closer than a brother’s.” 

“ But, Lissa, it seems to me he is farther away than 
ever since I have lain here sick. I am not doing any- 
thing for him, and so I do n’t feel as though I had a 
right to ask anything.” 

“ Bairn, suppose you were very ill and about to die, 
would you be fearsome ?” 

“ I do n’t know ; I do n’t really think I should, for 
sometimes I have thought I might be going in a de- 
cline, as Jennie Banks did, you know, and I did not 
feel much frightened, because you know he has prom- 
ised to keep us in the valley of shadows, and I think I 
believe it.” 

“ And so, lass, could you trust him in that dread 
hour, and for all beyond, and not dare to in these few 
weeks of sickness ?” 

“Tell me just what you mean by that,” asked 
Hilda, looking up with a new interest. 

“I mean just this, Hilda: the Lord says to you 
plainly, ‘ If you are my child, here is a chance to honor 
me and draw nearer to me than ever before.’ If you 
are willing to listen, he will speak to you such teach- 
ings as will be of more worth than much money. But 
if you shut your ear and your heart by impatient and 


228 


FA THERE HOUSE. 


wilful murmurings, then the message will pass you by, 
and in all your life you can never recover the loss. 
For the Lord’s opportunities can never be made up by 
aught else.” 

“Yes, yes, Lissa, I see. I am always looking ahead 
to some time when I am going to do some great ser- . 
vice for him, and so I know I lose many opportunities 
for work just know. It ’s just so about our new house. 

I am always thinking that when we get that and get in 
it, 1 11 do so many things to make it pleasant for father, 
but now I ’m too busy. It is n’t so with Alice ; she 
puts up her fancy-work in the evening and reads the 
paper to him when his eyes ache, and she buys a quart 
of berries for supper because he enjoys them, though I 
would rather put the money in the box. And I sup- 
pose I serve the Lord in the same way — always going 
to do something, and never reaching it.” 

“And yet, bairn, it’s the daily service that’s the 
happy service, and the service that he wants.” 

“The daily service! Then if I felt in that way, 
there ’d never be a lost day, would there ?” 

“ No ; how could there ?” 

“For then,” continued the girl eagerly, “when I 
went to church and Sabbath-school, or on week days 
at the mill, I would do my best to get and to give, be- 
cause in each case it would be his work and his time. 
And what can I do while I lie here, Lissa ?” 

“You can be patient and prayerful.” 


WAITING. 


229 


“All right, Lissa; I see now,” said Hilda, as the 
voices of the returning girls were heard. “ I ’m glad 
I ’ve found something to do even here ; you ’ve given 
me the best medicine yet ; many thanks to you.” 

And Lissa went home that night rejoicing. “ I ’m 
poor and ignorant beside the world’s wisdom, dear 
Lord,” she whispered in her room that night, “ but I 
thank thee that does not cut me off from the daily 
bread and the helping others to its crumbs.” 

But this was not a crumb, but a great piece of the 
loaf to Hilda. She could not sleep for gladness at 
having found it, and “ How blind, how blind !” she 
whispered many times, as she indeed began to feel and 
know what it was to hear His voice speaking in her 
heart. 

“ Why, he is my friend, my friend,” she could say 
over and over again in her new and great joy, and 
staying her mind on him she did indeed find peace. 


230 


FA THER’S HOUSE. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

OLD FRIENDS. 

Hilda did not lose her blessing with the morrow. 
“You look better, sister; do n’t she, Alice?” Bessie said, 
•climbing up beside her with demoralized Fanny Fur- 
below in her arm. 

“ I am better,” said Hilda in reply to Alice’s look. 
“I have decided not to worry any more or to take 
care ; I am just going to rest now.” 

“ I am so glad,” replied Alice. “ Rome was not 
built in a day, and why should we expect houses to be ?” 

“Besides,” continued Hilda, “if this is the best 
place for me, why, here I wish to stay. Alice,” she said 
soon after, as they were alone, “I have been doing 
wrong, I have been very impatient and discontented 
because I was not doing as much as I expected ; but I 
have concluded that He who is higher than I can and 
will manage my time best, and I am not going to 
trouble myself any more.” 

And she did not. If, in the tedious days that came 
after, when the midsummer sun poured down upon 
their 3e'cond-story home until the whole seemed like 
an oven, Hilda’s thoughts looked forward with longing 
to the pleasant shaded chamber that was sometime to 


OLD FRIENDS. 


231 


be hers, she checked the longing, and prayed for pa- 
tience with her life just as it was. When she repeated 
the Lord’s prayer, it was with a new sense of the peti- 
tion, “Thy kingdom come.” She had always passed 
that over to the heathen before. She began to make 
it a home missionary petition now. 

One day she had a business talk with Rob, the first 
since her sickness. 

“You wont have to draw any out of the bank, will 
you?” she asked anxiously. 

“Not a cent. You see, Dr. Thorne’s bill wasn’t 
as large as we expected for Bessie, and father’s been 
so well he says he can pay that, and he has already 
paid some of it, and you know I have a dollar a week 
more this summer, and that’s all we paid Mrs. Fisher.” 

“The doctor isn’t coming for me any more; if I 
want him I ’ll send for him,” said Hilda. 

“I know it; and Hilda,” for the boy couldn’t keep 
his secret any longer, “ I met him night before last 
and paid his bill for you, every cent of it. You see 
Alice had a little, and my clothes have hung on re- 
markably this summer, so we made it out, and you ’ll 
be fair and square with the world when you get up 
again.” 

“ But, you poor boy,” said his sister, “ you were 
going to have a new summer suit.” 

“I don’t need it, and a ‘penny saved is a penny 
earned ;’ so there ’s that gain.” 


232 


FA THER'S HOUSE . 


This was a great relief to Hilda, who was really- 
beginning to “pick up” a little. But the next day 
Rob came with some news not so good. 

“I say, Hilda, what do you think? they say Kate 
Marsh is surely going to marry that Ned Fisk.” 

“ O Rob ! why he drinks dreadfully.” 

“He does everything bad,” answered the boy. 
“ He spends half his time in Watson’s saloon, drinking 
and gambling and betting.” 

“ He can’t have much money left,” said Hilda. 

“ They say he’s run through almost all he had.” 

“And his father left him ten thousand, didn’t he?” 

“ Yes, but he made it selling whiskey to the soldiers; 
so it’s just and right that it should go in the same 
way.” 

“ I know ; but poor Kate ! she must know what he is.” 

“She knows well enough.” 

“But she wasn’t a bad girl, Rob; I can’t bear to 
have her throw herself away ; and it ’s so hard for her 
father and mother too.” 

“Oh, she’s pretty fast herself, Hilda; and then, 
you know, Ned wears shiny hats and boots, and takes 
her out to ride with fast horses ; and she ’s got some of 
those enormous long ear-rings — should think they ’d 
tear her ears out — and they’ve got bright stones in 
them, and they say he gave them to her ; and Kate ’ll 
marry any one that would give her fine things ; almost 
any girl will, you know, Hilda,” added the oracle; 


OLD FRIENDS . 


233 


“though I don’t mean you,” he had the grace to say 
before he was quite out of hearing. 

Hilda lay pondering and asking about the matter 
all the afternoon, and finally determined to have a talk 
with Kate if possible. 

“ I can’t influence her in the least, I am afraid,” she 
said to Alice; “but I wont let her throw herself away 
without telling her what I think of it.” 

Then she exerted herself to write a little note, and 
Alice carried it to Peggy to deliver the next morning. 

“ If you should take it, Alice, she would think we 
had been talking it over and would n’t come a step,” 
said Hilda, “and I do so hope she will.” 

Many times that day did Hilda ask that it might 
be put into the girl’s heart to comply with her request, 
and come to her that evening; but we must admit 
there was a great surprise in her heart when Bessie, who 
was sitting by her window in the twilight announced, 
“ There ’s Kate across the street, and she ’s coming 
over here too.” 

“ Run and open the door for her, Bess, when she 
knocks, and then you and Fanny F. stay out in the 
kitchen while she is here.” 

“Why?” asked the child; “I like to see her ear- 
rings and rings and things. She always has lots more 
than you and Alice do;” and Bessie withdrew, drag- 
ging Fanny by her head after her. 

In the little space left her alone, there went up as 
30 


Father'i) House. 


234 


FATHER'S HOUSE. 


earnest a prayer for guidance as Hilda had ever offered, 
and when Kate came sweeping in with a new rustling 
cambric, very much beruffled and looped, with the 
long pendants Rob had spoken of, and a hat perched 
on her back hair, and covered with the gayest of flowers, 
it was a very sweet pale face that answered her noisy 
greeting, and drew her irresistibly down to kiss it. 

“I declare, Hilda, it does seem good to see you 
again, after all,” she said in a voice it seemed impossi- 
ble to make accord with a sick-room. 

“Why have you stayed away so long, then?” asked 
Hilda. 

“ Oh, I do n’t find time, I suppose,” answered Kate, 
throwing off the flowery hat, and unfastening a chain 
that rattled against her metal belt and from which was 
suspended her Japanese fan. “I have to work, of 
course, hard as ever, and when I can get a chance to 
play, why, I do that.” 

“ And you do n’t call a sick-room a place for play, 
then ?” asked Hilda smiling. 

“Not exactly, though I am real glad to see you, 
Hilda, and that’s true,” was the answer. 

There was a little silence that Kate was the first to 
break. “ A’ n’t you dreadful tired of being shut up so 
long, Hilda?” 

“ I was for awhile, but I am reconciled to it now, 
and besides I am beginning to be better. I sat up 
two hours to-day in the rocking-chair.” 


OLD FRIENDS . 


235 


“ That ’s good ; I do n’t see how anybody can bear 
to be sick this hot weather. It takes the starch all out 
of me. And you ’re losing a sight of money too, a’ n’t 
you, Hilda?” 

“Perhaps I shall make it up in something else,” 
was the answer. 

“I don’t see what,” rejoined Kate; “though, to 
be sure, you a’ n’t wearing out much while you ’re here. 
My brown silk is most spoiled, Hilda.” 

“ How’s that ?” 

“Oh, I did n’t get my summer things early, and the 
heat ruined the waist for me, and since then I ’ve worn 
the skirt with a white waist and spilled ice-cream all 
over the front; too bad, isn’t it!” 

Hilda did not answer; the question had sounded 
more like a remark than as if intended to draw forth a 
reply. She lay quiet, with her eyes turned upon Kate, 
and the latter soon grew uneasy under the glance. 

“ You needn’t look at me so, Hilda, as if you were 
pitying me,” she exclaimed. 

“I beg your pardon,” answered Hilda; “I didn’t 
know that I was. I was only thinking.” 

“Yes, and I know what about too. I suppose I 
know well enough, Hilda, what you sent for me for, 
and I was a goose to come, too; but someway or 
other I had to,” and she laughed uneasily. 

“About Ned, you mean?” asked Hilda gravely. 

“I suppose so; that’s what everybody has to say 


236 


FATHER'S HOUSE. 


to me now-a-days, though how it ’s everybody’s busi- 
ness I ’m sure I can’t see.” 

“You are n’t going to marry him, Kate, are you?” 
asked Hilda earnestly. 

“Why not, I ’d like to know, if I choose to? He ’s 
good enough ; and if he likes me, whose business is it 
any way?” 

“ But he drinks, Kate.” 

“ So do a great many others, and get along well 
enough, for all I see. Look at Judge Colburn; he 
drinks like a fish, but he can get in the best of 
places.” 

“That doesn’t make it any better for you,” per- 
sisted Hilda. 

“ Besides, he can leave it off ; it ’s only his wild oats, 
he says. He ’s going to stop after we ’re married.” 

“ Do n’t you believe that, Kate ; if you can’t stop 
him before marriage, you never can after. Besides, he 
gambles at billiards and cards.” 

“Oh, that’s just for fun; he says he must have a 
little fun somehow.” 

“There can’t be much fun in paying away mote 
than a hundred dollars just for one game of cards, as 
he did the other night at Watson’s.” 

“Did he do that? How do you know?” asked 
Kate excitedly. 

“ Rob heard it from some one who was there and 
saw the whole.” 


OLD FRIENDS. 


2 37 

“ He told me he had n’t lost a cent in two months,” 
said Kate. 

“ Do you think that a man who drinks and gam- 
bles will feel obliged to tell you the truth?” queried 
Hilda. 

“See here, Hilda, I think you are saying pretty 
sharp things, and I would n’t bear them at all if you 
were n’t sick.” 

“ Excuse me, Kate dear, please. It ’s because I do 
really care for you, and can’t bear to see you throw 
yourself away ; so you must n’t mind.” 

*' I can’t help it now, Hilda, any way. I ’ve prom- 
ised to marry him, and I shall.” 

“ Bpt do you really care for him, Kate ?” persisted 
Hilda. 

“ Oh, people seem to get along in some way if they 
don’t care overmuch for one another,” replied Kate 
evasively. “ I ’ll tell you the truth, Hilda ; it ’s getting 
dreadfully stupid at home. Father is cross all the 
time because I ask him for money— just as though I 
could earn enough for everything; and mother frets 
because I want a little fun and good times, like other 
girls. I tell you, Hilda, do n’t it make you mad to see 
what a free-and-easy life Marge Trask has ? Nothing 
in the world to do but dress and ride and visit. Say, 
don’t it?” 

“ Not a bit, Kate; I can have just as good a time 
in my way as she.” 


238 


FATHER'S HOUSE. 


“ Well, it does me ; and I mean to get all the good 
I can out of life too. Ned Fisk isn’t so bad as he 
might be, and I ’ll have an easier time if I marry him 
than I do now, a good sight.” 

“ Do n’t believe that, Kate.” 

“ He gives me nice things,” continued Kate ; “ these 
ear-rings and a pin to match, and three finger-rings, and 
the loveliest lace scarf you ever saw, and three pairs of 
kid gloves, cream-colored and lavender, and some ele- 
gant hemstitched handkerchiefs, besides such lots of 
treats. You just ought to see.” 

“ And do your father and mother approve ?” asked 
Hilda. 

“ Bless your innocent heart, no. They can’t bear 
Ned, and wont let him come into the house. I go out 
to meet him.” 

“ Kate !” exclaimed Hilda eagerly, “ you surely are 
not going to marry him without their consent ?” 

The bold girl flushed, but did not answer. 

“ Kate,” pursued Hilda earnestly, “think how good 
and kind they have always been to you, and how it 
would break their hearts to have you do anything like 
that.” 

“Why, I don’t mean to hurt them, Hilda,” said 
Kate, more gently than she had yet spoken; “but 
every one must look out for herself, you know.” 

“ I remember,” continued Hilda, “ how proud your 
father used to be of you when you were a little girl ; 


OLD FRIENDS. 


239 


how, when it rained, he used to come leading you 
under an umbrella up to the schoolhouse door, and 
lifting you so carefully over the mud-puddles ; and, O 
Kate, now his hair is so white and his shoulders so 
stooping, I would n’t hurt him for anything, if I were 
you.” 

Kate’s head was resting on her hand now, and Hil- 
da could not see her face, but after a little she spoke, 

“ Well, Hilda, just to please you I ’ll promise not to 
marry him for three months, at least unless they con- 
sent ; but more than that I can’t say. Ned Fisk has 
got some money, and I might as well have a good time 
with it as anybody.” 

“ But he wont have any long if he goes on like 
this ; and, Kate, think what it would be, after it ’s all 
gone, to be tied for life to a person whom you could n’t 
respect or love in the least.” 

“ Oh, for that matter,” retorted Kate lightly, “ di- 
vorces are easily got in this country.” 

“ Why, Kate Marsh!” 

“ Come, my dear Miss Prudence, I did n’t mean to 
shock you so terribly; don’t mind. And now let’s 
talk of something else ; I think I ’ve been pretty patient 
to stand all this lecturing ; but then you always were a 
good little thing, Hilda, only you can’t expect every- 
body to be like you.” 

And during the remainder of her call she talked 
only of every-day matters, and after a little found it 


240 


FATHER'S HOUSE. 


was time to go. Hilda was very tired with the long 
talk, and could not see that all her anxiety or words 
had amounted to anything. Kate was going to marry 
that reckless good-for-nothing, and her whole life 
would be a wreck. 

But Hilda did not know that she had saved her 
from one very sad mistake ; that the time was already 
appointed by Ned, and Kate had not refused her con- 
sent for a runaway wedding one week from that very 
night; that the scoundrel had arranged with some of 
his miserable companions for a mock ceremony, and 
when he grew tired of the wilful girl, as he knew he 
very soon would, he would run away to parts unknown. 
That promise of three months of waiting saved the 
girl; for long before that Ned had quarrelled so bitter- 
ly with some of his boon friends, that knives had been 
drawn and a terrible wound inflicted, and Ned Fisk 
had decamped, using the last of his father’s criminal 
earnings in a passage to South America, there to run a 
brief race of crime and die in disgrace. 

But all this was holden from Hilda yet ; she could 
only lie wearied out and with slow-falling tears for a 
time; and then, half between sleeping and waking, did 
not heed the opening of the outer door, and a new 
voice in the kitchen asking for her. 

There was no lamp in her room, but the full moon 
shone in at the window and lighted it brightly. Half 
asleep she was conscious of a gentle rustle near her, 


OLD FRIENDS. 


241 


and of a delicate perfume, very different from the odor 
of musk Kate had brought in with her; and then, as a 
kiss was dropped softly on her forehead, she opened 
her eyes to see bending over her in a flood of moon- 
light so welcome a sight that for a minute she held her 
breath as if it were a vision, and then exclaimed, “ O 
Connie Harris, is it you ?” It was the first time since 
they were schoolgirls together that Hilda had called 
her by her first name, and the sound of it stopped the 
speaker from any further words, but Connie kissed her 
cheek this time, and sat down beside her. 

“ It is I, surely. I came home this noon, and saw 
the home people all the afternoon. There were callers 
this evening, and after they were gone I told Lissa if 
she would run down with me, we would come here for 
a minute. I had some grapes for you that would n’t 
keep long, and I ’m going to drive early in the morn- 
ing; but it was too bad to wake you up.” 

“ I do n’t think so,” said Hilda, smiling brightly. 

“ But you did look so sweet asleep in the moon- 
light, I had to kiss you,” added Connie. 

“And when I looked up I thought it was a spirit, 
or something of the kind,” retorted Hilda. 

Connie made but a very “small bit of a call,” as 
Bess said, who had come in and was tasting grapes 
without leave or license; but if you think Hilda went 
to sleep again with tears on her eyelids, you are very 
much mistaken. Connie was one of the people who 
3i 


Father’s House. 


242 


FATHER’S HOUSE. 


usually leave smiles and happy hearts behind them, 
and she certainly did in Hilda’s plain little room that 
night. 

And now at last there really began to be a marked 
gain on Hilda’s part towards health and strength. It 
was quite a gala time the first day she took dinner with 
the family, and when she grew able to get out of doors 
she soon cast aside the character of invalid. Dr. 
Thorne gave her her first ride, and after that Mr. Trask 
took her several times when he had business out in the 
country, and Margie and Connie each gave her several 
rides, the memory of which was very pleasant to Hilda. 

As soon as possible she found little ways in which 
to help Alice about the house. “My fingers are so 
tired of doing nothing; do let me shell those beans,” 
was her first offer ; and soon she was allowed to do all 
the “sitting-down” jobs, and soon began to feel of use 
again. 

But the summer had entirely passed away and the 
first day of September came before she was permitted 
to go into the factory, and then only for a half-day at 
first, until strength had more fully returned. 

“ And have the weeks been lost, bairn, whiles you 
have waited?” asked Lissa, after work had begun 
again. 

“No indeed, Lissa, I would not forget them. I 
have learned something that will be of use all my life 
now ; only a little, I mean — but how to be patient.” 


OLD FRIENDS. 


243 


And the good woman smiled thankfully, for others 
besides herself recognized the fact that a new gentle- 
ness and carefulness had been born in this young girl’s 
heart through those long weeks of waiting, and that the 
chastening, which seemed at first so grievous, would 
yield pleasant fruit in the years to come. 


244 


FATHER'S HOUSE. 


CHAPTER XV. 

FOUND AT LAST. 

The trees had begun to wear their gayest robes 
and the leaves to drift down in every breath of wind 
before Hilda accomplished a full week’s work, and then 
when Monday night came and she went to the office 
for her pay, she found that it could not equal that of 
the year before. Wages had fallen, and hers would be, 
at the best, a dollar and a half less than formerly. 

“Well, I shall have to economize more, that’s all,” 
she said to Rob and Alice. 

“ But you need more than you did last year,” said 
her sister. “ You wore your clothes pretty close then.” 

“I know it, but father’s coat taught me a lesson; 
as long as anything will hold together I will make it of 
some use.” 

“Just see what that coat has done for him,” said 
Rob ; “ he ’s worn it ever since, and it will serve for 
a year or two yet.” 

“ Till we get the new house,” said Hilda laughing. 
“I’m going to have my five dollars every week for the 
bank, if possible, then two more for board, and that 
leaves me just one and a half for other expenses.” 

“ But you ’ll have to have a new dress, Hilda.” 


FOUND AT LAST. 


245 

“ No, my black cashmere must answer another 
term.” 

“ It looks rather shabby and soiled,” said her sister. 

“ I shall take it all apart,” answered Hilda, “ wash it 
in tepid suds, and rinse it thoroughly, ink over the 
spots, get some new black silk to trim it with, and 
you ’ll see me out in a suit as good as new. Nothing 
like contriving, you know.” 

“ I should think so,” said her sister admiringly. 
“ Well, I am pretty well provided for for the winter, 
and I ’ve promised four sacques before Thanksgiving ; 
Mrs. Thorne wants them for her grandchildren when 
they come home then. If only Bess would n’t wear out 
her clothes so fast and outgrow them so, I ’d do a good 
deal more.” 

But in spite of Bess and housework Alice’s busy 
hands accomplished a great deal in various kinds of 
fancy-work, and having such a natural taste for it, and 
quickness in catching up new designs and imitating 
intricate patterns, she had all the orders for work that 
she could fill. 

“How do you manage to do so much?” an ac- 
quaintance asked one day. 

“ I don’t know, I’m sure,” Alice answered, “unless 
it ’s because I always pick up all the corners of time I 
have.” 

And “corners” will give a great many opportunities. 

Gradually, too, Hilda again found her place in the 


246 


FATHER'S HOUSE. 


social life that she had thought so highly of. It was 
hard at first to take her class back again ; she missed 
so much the blue-eyed lad whose questioning tongue 
and looks of interest had been worth so much to his 
teacher; but the other boys gave her a hearty wel- 
come, and she again found it a pleasant place. The 
teachers’ meetings, Mr. Agnew’s “ evenings,” and the 
Thursday evening prayer-meetings, were very delight- 
ful to her after her long seclusion. 

At the prayer-meeting, too, there began to be a new 
interest for her in the fact that Naomi was always there. 
In a corner by the wall, as far as possible from a lamp, 
there was always to be seen the large form and the 
plain, dark hat, with a small veil over the face, and 
Hilda glanced at it with a thought of prayer each time. 
She could not often speak to her, for Naomi always 
hurried out as if fearful of observation, and was as silent 
and reserved as ever at the mill ; but she had become 
a part of Hilda’s daily prayer, and of course there had 
sprung up the deepest interest in her heart for her. 

One night in the late fall she happened to reach the 
door at the same time with Naomi, and there found 
that a light, chilling rain was falling. 

“ Here, take my umbrella,” said Hilda, noticing 
how her companion shivered and drew her poor, faded 
shawl closer about her throat. “ Father said he thought 
it was going to rain, and so I brought my shawl and 
can throw it right over my head.” 


FOUND AT LAST. 


24 7 


But Naomi shook her head, and in a moment was 
lost in the darkness that could not be penetrated a yard 
ahead. 

The next day when they sat down for lunch, Hilda 
noticed the hoarse cough of her companion, and said, 
“You ought to have taken my umbrella last night, 
Naomi, as I wished you to.” 

But Naomi said, “ It ’s nothing ; I ’ll get over 

* it.” 

But she did not. Every day it seemed to Hilda it 
was tighter and more frequent, and every night she 
planned to make a cough mixture, that was called 
“ mother’s remedy,” and considered infallible in Mr. 
Duncan’s family ; but being very busy that week on a 
dress for Bess, she neglected to execute her intention, 
as we so often do neglect known duties. The next 
Thursday Naomi was not at meeting. Hilda was sure 
of that, for she sat on the back seat herself and looked 
for her. She had brought a little bottle of medicine, 
which Alice had found time to make as soon as her 
sister mentioned it. 

The next day Naomi was not at the mill, and Hilda 
was thoroughly alarmed, for she knew she had seldom 
lost an hour before since she first came there. A light 
snow was falling, and the walking was very bad, so she 
waited all the morning to see if the weather would not 
improve, but at noon she expressed her determination 
to go and see what was the matter. 


248 


FATHER'S HOUSE. 


“ I wish you would,” said • Anna Morrison ; “ I ’ll 
take two of your looms.” 

“ So will I,” said the girl on the other side, “ after 
two o’clock. Mary Ann ’s got leave out till that, and 
I ’ve promised to tend for her.” 

“ She may come this afternoon, too,” put in anoth- 
er ; “ it does n’t snow quite so hard now.” 

“ She has no clothes fit for a storm, any way,” said 
a third. “ I wonder what she does with her money. 
She do n’t use it, that ’s sure.” 

So Hilda had to wait until Mary Ann’s return, and 
then the overseer gave her leave to go out. She had 
come well bundled that morning, and she needed all 
her wraps now, for the storm had gained new violence 
since noon, and swept through the narrow streets with 
a force that at times almost took Hilda off her feet. It 
was a long walk, and she thought she would never 
reach Naomi’s home, for when she got out of the lanes 
and up near the edge of the village where the houses 
were more scattered, the storm had lost none of its 
fury. The house she was in search of stood quite by 
itself, in a little field outside of the village limits. It 
was a tall, bare house, with as many windows in it as a 
school building, and not a tree or large shrub near. 

She had to push open the outer door and enter, for 
no knock of hers would be heard above the wind. The 
heavy door swung back, and having entered a-nd closed 
it, she climbed the long flights of stairs to the upper 


1 






















* 








FOUND AT LAST. 


249 


floor, where she saw at the end of the passage a small 
door, and made her way to it. There was no latch 
outside, and she knocked in vain for admittance, though 
she was sure she heard the too familiar cough within. 
At last she saw at her feet a little stick, and putting it 
in the place of the missing latchet, opened the door 
and entered. 

A sad sight met her eye, for in the cold, fireless 
room, almost entirely destitute of furniture, Naomi lay 
on her poor bed with its scanty covering, flushed with 
fever and racked with coughing. She could not speak 
aloud, but Hilda, who had brought her little bottle to 
the mill that morning, now filled an old pewter spoon 
from it and held it to her lips. The woman took it 
gratefully, and it soothed her throat and eased the rat- 
tling cough. “Water!” she said eagerly, and Hilda 
filled a cup, after breaking the ice that had formed over 
the contents of a tin pail. 

Then Naomi spoke more easily, and said that she 
was taken worse in the night, and had been too sick to 
get up all day ; that no one had happened to come in, 
and she had thought she would die of thirst. Her eyes 
followed Hilda as the girl got a few materials from a 
closet and lighted a fire in the cracked stove, and then 
gathered up the few wrappings she could find and piled 
them on the bed. But her blaze rushed up the chim- 
ney, and the heat seemed to go with it. Hilda thought 
she would freeze, if her patient did not. 

32 


Father’s House. 


250 


FATHER'S HOUSE. 


“ Is there nobody I could get to do anything for 
you ?” asked Hilda presently. 

“ There ’s a widow woman on the floor below that 
has been kind to me whispered Naomi. “ I think she 
would come.” 

Hilda went down and found Mrs. Cary, who was 
varying the prevailing occupation of the building by 
ironing instead of washing. The fire in her little cook- 
stove seemed so genial, that Hilda found herself warm- 
ing her hands over it while she told her story. 

“I’m glad you came to me,” said the bright little 
woman; “ I Ve always been interested in her these two 
years back, since I came here. And what does she 
want most ?” she asked. 

“ Everything,” answered Hilda. 

The woman nodded as though that was what she 
had expected. “ Suppose I took up an extra quilt now 
for her bed. I ’ve got one, and I will.” 

But after she had tucked Naomi up in it and examin- 
ed the stove and the snow-lined windows, she shook her 
head. “ This ’ll never do ; everybody else would freeze, 
if she did n’t. She must come down to my room.” 

“ But can she ?” asked Hilda. 

“ Can’t any less than die here,” said Mrs. Cary 
cheerfully. “ Yes, she must come down. Bill Smith, 
the carter, is at home now, and I ’ll go get him, and 
you and I ’ll help, and we ’ll get her down all safe and 
sound;” and in a trice the little woman was off. 


FOUND AT LAST. 


251 


She came back better than her word, for she brought 
two men, and by wrapping the sick woman in the quilt 
the removal was accomplished quite easily. Naomi 
made no objection, and when she was laid on. the feath- 
er-bed, and felt the delicious warmth of the little room 
stealing through her chilled, frame, the first tears Hilda 
had ever seen in her eyes filled them. 

“ I will see that you are well paid, Mrs. Cary,” said 
Hilda. 

“ No, no,” whispered Naomi, drawing out her hand 
from the quilt with an old-fashioned bead-purse in it. 
“ Here ’s twenty-five dollars I *ve kept against I might 
be sick. Let her take it and use it as she needs.” 

So it was soon arranged. “ Mrs. Flynn and I are 
in partnership,” Mrs. Cary said; “she washes and I 
iron, so I have a good fire, you see, and that ’s just 
what she needs ; and as for the rest, why, I ’m a natural 
nurse, and it ’ll be a boon to me to practise,” with her 
cheerful laugh. 

Hilda left, promising to send the doctor; and for 
some reason the storm must have been entirely in her 
back, for all the heed or thought she gave to it on her 
return trip. 

Naomi’s sickness was not as long or as severe as 
the doctor at first feared; perhaps Mrs. Cary being “a 
born nurse” had something to do with that; and Nao- 
mi proved a very docile patient. When Alice came 
one day, some two weeks later, to bring a little custard 


252 


FATHER'S HOUSE. 


she had made for her, she found her sitting up in bed 
crimping Mrs. Cary’s ruffles for her. 

The next Sabbath afternoon Hilda called, as that 
was the only time of daylight the short days allowed 
her. She found Naomi sitting up in the large rocking- 
chair, in her lap a Bible, and a quiet, peaceful expres- 
sion on her countenance, that gave a new look to the 
strong features. For the first time Hilda noticed how 
regular they were, and how fair the skin had become 
since it had been protected from wind and dust. She 
was alone, Mrs. Cary having gone out to exercise her 
powers of nursing on a croupy baby. 

Hilda kissed her, and felt that her kiss was returned, 
and sitting beside her told what Mr. Agnew had preach- 
ed about that morning, and what messages the girls 
had sent her, until a little silence fell between them, 
such as there is apt to be when there are weightier 
matters in the heart than the lips are uttering. 

“And Mrs. Cary is going this week, I suppose,” 
Hilda said presently. 

“Yes, on Wednesday.” 

Mrs. Cary had received within the last week, from 
her former town, an invitation to become the nurse and 
companion of a lady afflicted with rheumatism. To go 
back to the familiar faces, to have a comfortable home 
provided, and at the same time be at liberty to devise 
ointments and teas, was not to be hesitated over at all. 
This was what was meant. 


FOUND AT LAST. 


253 


“And I shall be getting back to the old place,” 
Naomi said, the brightness going out of her face. 

“ That dreary place,” said Hilda, with a shudder. 
“ Naomi, one thing I wanted to talk to you about to- 
day is this: you are not going back to that way of 
living; we all say that. There is an empty room in 
the same house with us, and you must come there. 
The rent is but little more than for this old shell ; and 
until you get quite well, Alice and I are going to look 
after you, make nice little things for you to eat, and 
give you good care. Then you are always to have a 
home-feeling with us ; to stay with us evenings except 
when you would rather be alone. You are not 
to feel that nobody in the world cares for you any lon- 
ger.” 

The woman raised grave, questioning eyes to the 
young girl’s face, and asked, “ Why do you offer this 
to me ?” 

“For several reasons,” said Hilda. “I like you, 
and am sorry for your loneliness, for one; and then 
that night after Mrs. Cary told Alice about her going, 
my reading had the verse, ‘ Inasmuch as ye have done 
it unto the least of these, ye have done it unto me,’ and 
I thought of this at once. Alice and I have talked the 
matter over and settled it. So now please say Yes; it 
will make us both happy.” 

Naomi’s head had sunk upon her hand, and she 
kept it there so long that Hilda grew impatient ; but 


254 


FATHER'S HOUSE . 


when she saw the pale, resolved, face that was at last 
lifted, she forgot her impatience. 

“ You do not know anything about my past life,” 
she said quietly. 

“ I do n’t believe it has been a very bad one,” an- 
swered the girl; “ anyway, I ’ll trust you.” 

“I’ll tell it to you,” returned Naomi; then per- 
haps you will take back your wish. I wont be long. 
I was the only child in our home, and my father and 
mother brought me up much like Kate Marsh, to think 
I must have my own way in everything. I grew up 
not bad-looking, and I was vainer and sillier even than 
she is. At fifteen I went into a millinery and dress- 
making establishment kept by a widow. I was quick, 
and made good wages ; I saw the ladies trying on and 
buying fine things all the time. I worked on silks and 
satins, and I grew crazy to dress more than others, and 
spent every cent I could in any way get on my own 
back. I stayed there five years, and was rather a favor- 
ite with the mistress, though she was a hard, proud 
woman, and I might have got on all right if she hadn’t 
had a son ; and she found out he had taken me to ride 
several times, and given me some presents of cheap 
jewelry. Not that I cared anything for him, Miss Dun- 
can, but I was bound to have a ‘ good time,’ as I called 
it, in any way I could. 

“ About this time two hundred dollars that the mis- 
tress had was taken one night from her desk. I know 


FOUND AT LAST. 


2 55 


now, as I believed then, that her son took it for some 
of his gambling debts ; but she was glad of an excuse 
to get rid of me, and she had begun to hate me too. 
She laid it to me, and it so happened that I had been 
in the room alone with it that day, and the girls knew 
it. They did not like me either, because I had out- 
shone them and treated them carelessly, so I had no 
friends to stand up for me, though I was innocent as a 
babe. At last, after my good name was gone, the 
woman told me that she would let me go without pros- 
ecution if I would promise never to have anything more 
to do with her son. I was glad enough to get off in that 
way, and went home. My father had died two years 
before, and I had worn the deepest crape that fashion 
allowed for him. My mother, when she heard of my 
disgrace, had a stroke of paralysis. She recovered from 
the first stupor, but was a helpless woman ever after. 
For six years I took care of her night and day, except 
a few hours each day when I earned a little in a mill. 
But I should have had to see her go on the town if a 
kind man, who had been my father’s employer, had not 
helped me by lending me money at different times ; for 
she had to have a doctor and medicines all those years, 
and I could not leave her to earn much. But I gave 
her as good care as could be, and the only prayer I 
ever offered in all that time was, that I might live to 
pay my debt to that kind old gentleman. I had noth- 
ing else to live for. Every one believed me guilty, and 


256 


FATHER'S HOUSE. 


treated me as such, and I grew as hard and bitter as 
any one could. I think I hated everybody. I cannot 
tell you how bitter those years were. I never went to 
church, nor on the street in the daytime if I could 
help it. 

“ Four years ago my mother died, and I found I 
was in debt to my only friend more than two hundred 
dollars. I had heard of these mills and came here, but 
I am not as quick at this work as you are, and I have 
been slow in paying my debt. But I sent the last few 
dollars two weeks before I was taken sick, and have a 
receipt in full from Mr. Anderson. May God bless 
him. 

“ One thing more : I think I did not believe much 
in God when I came here, but that very first evening 
you took me to prayer-meeting with you, and that 
gentleman came along and spoke to you of the forgive- 
ness of sins, I got my word. I had no other help, and 
I needed some. I ’m slow, I think, for I ’ve been gro- 
ping along ever since ; but then what wonder is it when 
I ’ve been nigh thirty years neglecting my Saviour ! 
But now,” and her hand was laid reverently on the 
Word in her lap, “I believe I ’ve seen the way, and I 
trust in his goodness to forgive all my sins. He knows 
my life and I think he will take care of me.” 

Her story was finished, and Hilda’s tears and hand- 
clasp were her answer to it. 

When there came a bright pleasant day that week, 


FOUND AT LAST. 


2 57 


Naomi was carried to her new room, where her few 
possessions were already arranged, and thenceforth she 
had a place and friends in the world. The entire 
humility and self-forgetfulness that the long years of 
discipline and then Christ’s love had wrought in her, 
made her a very helpful companion, and there were 
soon many to find it out. Besides, she soon heard 
about the plans of her friends, and then she too began 
to have a secret. 

“ When they get enough for their house,” she said 
to herself, “ there ’ll be some fitting up to do, and I ’m 
going to have a hand in that.” 

She picked up a poor little waif of a lame girl, who 
was all alone in the mill, and likely to get no good 
there, and gave her a home, and in a little time affec- 
tion, and received so much in return from the grateful 
child that her years seemed to go back rather than 
forward. 

“ I do n’t see how we got along without you,” Hilda 
and Alice used to say sometimes. “We’ll have to 
find a place for you close beside us when we get that 
new house. 

And then they would all laugh merrily, for the 
house was really beginning to cast quite a substantial 
shadow before it in their savings-bank book. 

Another year and a half rolled away in busy and 
successful days. Mr. Duncan had never been free from 
sickness so long within the memory of his children. 
33 


Father’s House. 


258 


FA THER'S HOUSE. 


Hilda’s health seemed perfect; Rob pleased his em- 
" ployer, and his wages had been again increased; and 
their “castle in the air” seemed to promise to settle 
down in wood and brick if they would only have a 
patient spirit ; and that was not so difficult now. 

Of course Mr. Duncan had had to know that they 
had an account in the bank before this, but he had no 
idea how fast it was growing. He was very much 
pleased with it, and used sometimes to hint to Rob that 
perhaps by the time he was twenty-five he could lay up 
five hundred dollars and go into business for himself, 
and Rob, the rogue, would plan with him about it in 
high glee. 

It was three years now since their project first took 
shape in the mind of the brother and sister. The first 
year had witnessed the laying up of one hundred 
dollars ; the second, their book balanced two hundred 
and fifty, and the third nearly the same. The girls had 
ceased to banter Hilda on the plainness of her dress. 
It was always neat and in good taste, and she was 
always kind and helpful; her strong common sense, 
her ladylike manners, and her habits of reading and 
study gave her great influence in the mill, and that 
influence was the best possible. She was never afraid 
to speak of turning dresses, or of giving up tea and 
coffee because they were unnecessary and expensive, 
or of any economy that was right and proper ; while 
all knew that her purse was always open to help any 


FOUND AT LAST. 


2 59 


need or relieve suffering, and at the Sabbath -school 
festivals and Mr. Agnew’s evenings there were others 
besides Connie and Margie who appreciated her ready- 
fingers and her good reading. In fact, Hilda was 
living very happily, when there came a slight jar to 
break her peace. 

At the close of the third year they found their 
home broken up. The house in which they had lived 
so long, and which had been owned by a non-resident, 
was sold to one of the mill companies and wanted by 
them for their own hands. It was a bad season of the 
year to change, and the Duncans’ best endeavors could 
secure nothing better than a ground floor on one of 
the narrow lanes. They could not any of them bear 
to think of that. 

While they were debating, Rob came home one 
day and told the girls there was a house for sale for six 
hundred dollars if they wanted it. The girls went to 
see it. They found it a bare, inconvenient house, with 
a basement, and two rooms on each floor above. 

“Father hates stairs bad enough now; I don’t 
know what he’d do here,” said Rob, surveying the 
prospect gloomily. 

“ There is n’t a tree, not even so much as a rose- 
bush on the place,” added Alice. 

In short they went home in a very dissatisfied and 
uncertain state of mind. Fortunately Lissa came in 
that evening. 


26 o 


FATHER'S HOUSE. 


“ Do n’t ye do that, bairns,” she said as soon as she 
had heard the statement of the case. “ That ’s but a 
poorly-built concern, they say, besides its unsuitable- 
ness. Do n’t throw your money in the burn to have to 
fish it out again. Bide the right time, and seek the 
Lord’s wisdom, and he’ll not leave you to a foolish 
choice.” 

So the matter was settled and they moved down 
to the lane. It was very unpleasant to all. Their 
windows were close on the walk, and they had to have 
half curtains up all the time to prevent being looked in 
upon by every passer-by. The noise of the families on 
the floor above, the associates that Bessie picked up, 
the quarrelling they heard, and the close air of the 
neighborhood, were all very trying. Through the 
winter they had one kind of annoyances, and the 
spring brought others even worse. 

“We might almost as well live in the streets,” Alice 
would say frequently. “We must whisper or every- 
body will hear all we say, and smother, or let all look 
in on us. O dear, for our own house !” 

And “ O dear, for a home of our own,” was the 
constant echo of the other hearts. 

They were on the outlook constantly, but found 
nothing at all satisfying. They were determined to 
have a little garden, and they found that to purchase 
the land and build any such house as they desired, at 
the present rates in Valley Falls, would cost more than 


FOUND AT LAST. 


261 


they had yet earned. Besides, they had none of them 
the time, even if they had known enough, to oversee 
the building. 

“ And you may add at least one-fourth to the cost 
if you can’t oversee for yourselves. No; bide patient 
a little longer, and the Lord will open up to the right 
place,” was Lissa’s advice to them. 

But as the summer went on, their discomforts became 
almost unbearable. “ I pity people who must die of 
pin-pricks,” Hilda said one day, after they had been 
enumerating the various ills to which their life was 
subject. “ I do n’t know what has got into me ; I 
have n’t the spirit of an owl.” 

“You need to go up to Aunt Rachel’s again,” 
remarked Bessie wisely; “she’ll wake you up quick. 
I ’ll be glad when Cousin Agnes comes down to see us, 
wont you, girls ?” 

The sisters looked at one another quickly. Agnes’ 
long promised visit was to be made in “ the good time 
coming,” when they had their own place to welcome 
her to. 

Naomi proved to be their helper after all. It was 
wonderful to note the change in this woman. Ever 
since she had first received the divine love into her 
heart she had seemed to walk as a little child, willing 
to be led. She had found one room for herself and 
the little lame girl at quite a distance from the Dun- 
cans’, in a much pleasanter part of the village, and she 


262 


FATHER'S HOUSE . 


would gladly have given it up to her friends if the 
accommodations had been sufficient. Her eyes were 
frank and quiet now, and her whole face spoke of peace. 

She came in one evening at the close of a sultry 
August day, and found Hilda and Alice alone in their 
kitchen, and both evidently very much under the influ- 
ence of the weather. 

Her face was full of something good, the girls could 
see; but she had to wait to tell it until Mr. Duncan 
had gone out, which he did soon, to get some potatoes 
for the next day. Then came the news : “ I ’ve found 
your house, girls, I believe !” 

“Oh, where?” cried both at once. 

“The Rogers place,” answered Naomi. 

“Why, they said that couldn’t be bought,” said 
Hilda. 

“ It ’s a sudden move, but the man, I believe, wants 
money to speculate on cotton lands in the South, and 
he left word with Mr. Southworth to-day to sell it as 
soon as he could, and for cash he might sell it cheap.” 

“Why, Alice, that’s the elm house, you know, 
where you and Rob and I were born. How happy 
father would be ; he always said they were the happi- 
est years of his life when he lived there; and mother 
loved it so too. I ’ve thought of that place a thousand 
times, but never dreamed we might possibly get it.” 

“Don’t be too sure yet,” said Naomi; “but will 
you and Alice go up and see Mr. Southworth ?” 


FOUND AT LAST. 


263 


“Yes, right away, as soon as I change my dress. 
Call .Bess, Alice; she must keep house until father 
comes.” 

“How did you come to know about it?” asked 
Hilda after they had started. 

“Mrs. Southworth engaged Lizzie to dress a doll 
for her little girl, and I carried it up, and he was speak- 
ing about it just as I went into the dining-room. So I 
asked more about it and told him I would come again 
to-night with some one, and he said he ’d be glad to 
sell it off-hand, for he had business enough of his 
own.” 

“ How is Lizzie, Naomi?” asked Alice. 

“Her back grows worse; I think she’ll never 
stand again ; but she ’s patient and happy.” 

“ What would she have done if it had n’t been for 
you?” said Hilda. 

“I’d be lonesome enough without her now,” re- 
plied the woman; “she’s the sunlight of my room.” 

They found Mr. Southworth alone with his paper 
and they were soon ready for business. 

“I will sell that place for nine hundred dollars,’’ 
said the gentleman. “Two years ago it was worth 
more, but it needs repairs now, and property isn’t 
quite so much in demand as then.” 

“ We can pay you eight hundred and fifty in cash,” 
said Hilda, referring to her book, “ and then have our 
interest for needed repairs. We have had to draw out 


264 


FATHER'S HOUSE . 


some of our interest in the other years, so it has not 
accumulated much,” she exclaimed. 

“ Do you mean to say, miss,” said the lawyer look- 
ing at her over his spectacles, “that you are prepared 
to pay that amount down on receipt of a clear deed ?” 

“Yes, sir, if my brother consents, as I know he 
will.” 

“Then you may have the deed to-morrow. You 
can arrange to leave the money where it is until called 
for, just changing names ; and I must say, I am glad 
for you ” — for Hilda had told him how the money had 
been obtained — “glad for you that your prudence and 
work have done this. I shall make the deed over 
with pleasure. Can you come to my office at three 
o’clock to-morrow?” 

“ You shall have the whole afternoon, Hilda,” said 
Naomi. 

“ Rob can come best about that time, I think, sir.” 

So it was soon arranged and they departed, the 
girls insisting on walking around by the brown house, 
standing blank and curtainless in the moonlight, but 
to them already a welcome sight. 

There was not much sleep for three pairs of eyes on 
the lane that night. 

“ Rob, I think you must have turned over a hun- 
dred times last night,” said his father at breakfast ; but 
the only answer to this mildly reproachful statement 
was a hearty laugh from Mr. Duncan’s eldest three. 


FOUND AT LAST. 


265 


They were promptly on hand at Mr. Southworth’s 
office at the hour appointed, and found him there, with 
the cashier of the savings-bank. 

“I didn’t think to offer you the key,” said Mr. 
Southworth. “ Do you want to go and look it over?” 

“Oh, no, sir,” they answered, for every minute 
seemed an hour until the business was done. 

It did not take long, after all — the transfer of their 
savings to the new name, and then the making out the 
deed and affixing the names. But when the paper 
was handed them, and the three eagerly took it and 
read on until they came to the words, “to Wesley R. 
Duncan and his heirs for ever,” the two girls burst into 
tears, and Rob went off to the window and used his 
handkerchief briskly. 

Mr. Southworth took off his spectacles and rubbed 
them out of sympathy, and the cashier snatched up 
the paper and read the latest news upside down ap- 
parently. The lawyer had told their story before they 
came in, and even business men have feelings. 

But this was one of the storms that clear off very 
sunshiny, and three happier persons never left that 
office than went away presently, carrying a folded law 
paper and a dull brass key, and with hearts and tongues 
running races in their delight. 


Father’s House. 


34 


266 


FA THER 'S HOUSE. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

THE REWARD. 

They held a grave consultation on the way home 
as to how they would make known the long contem- 
plated surprise to their father, and finally agreed upon 
a plan of action that satisfied them well. 

Accordingly, the next morning at breakfast they 
informed the unsuspecting man that they were going 
to “move.” 

“Where?” asked Mr. Duncan resignedly. 

“They made him guess until he told them he 
thought it must be out of town,” and then told him it 
was the “ little brown house under the elms where you 
used to live, and that mother liked so well, you know, 
father.” 

“ Why, I thought the man who owned that was 
coming there to live,” said Mr. Duncan. 

“ There is some change in his plan, I believe, and 
we can go there for the present, certainly,” answered 
Hilda. 

“ But it will be only to change again just as we get 
attached to the place, as it was before,” said her father. 

“We will hope not,” was the cheerful answer; “in 
any case let ’s have the good of it as long as we can.” 


THE REWARD. 


2C7 


But here they met an unexpected obstacle in the 
opposition of Mr. Duncan. They could not understand 
how hard it was for him to go back to that place of so 
many tender memories, and it was several days before 
he yielded to them enough to say that he was perfectly 
willing to go into it ; but still his feeling was such that 
he did not care to go around by it at all, or talk much 
about it. So he did not know that a carpenter was 
there shingling the roof, hanging a new door, and put- 
ting in the front six new window sashes with more 
modern glass than the old six-by-eight panes. 

But the children knew all about it. Rob managed 
to take it in his way whenever possible if sent out on 
errands, and Alice and Hilda visited it nearly every 
day. 

The next Monday the moving commenced. Not 
that there was so much to move, but they found a man 
who could take one load that day, and the remainder 
the next; so the less needful articles went in the after- 
noon, and Alice went with them to dream once more 
through the empty rooms before the time of full pos- 
session. For there never went into one small house 
more loving, hopeful dreams than were being woven 
about this. 

And it was a cheery spot out of which to make a 
home. Let us look at it through Alice’s eyes as it 
stood under the fair September sun, with its new win- 
do.ws glistening in the afternoon light, and its open 


268 


FATHER'S HOUSE. 


door speaking a welcome to all good and loving deeds. 
It had formerly been quite at the edge of the village, 
but there were several handsome residences just beyond 
now. This place would have been taken up long be- 
fore if the grounds had been a little larger and of a 
different shape. Owing to the peculiar bend of the 
street here, not at a right angle, but rather as part of an 
ellipse, the lot, though very pleasant and picturesque 
for a small home, would not admit of any extensive 
landscape gardening. The house itself stood on a gen- 
tle slope above the street, under two immense elms that 
locked their branches, as if for protection, far above the 
lowly roof. It was a broad story-and-a-half house, 
facing the south. It had at one time been painted 
brown, and still retained traces of this in the weather- 
washed clapboards. In the middle was a door opening 
into an entry just large enough for a door on each side, 
and the narrow stairs that turned half way up. On 
either hand was a large square room ; that on the right 
being intended for the parlor, while on the left, with 
south and west windows, was the kitchen. These two 
rooms opened together back of the stairway, and the 
cellar stairs opened from the kitchen under it. Back 
of these two rooms were three smaller ones, a bedroom 
at each end; the one out of the parlor “for Aunt Ra- 
chel’s folks,” as the girls said at once ; the one out of 
the kitchen “ for father,” of course; and between was a 
nice pantry. Up stairs there were two chambers, the 


THE REWARD. 


269 


one over the kitchen for the girls, and the opposite for 
Rob. Out of the pleasant, sunny kitchen, there was a 
door on the west side, opening under an apple-tree, 
up on to a little platform that ran along to the wood- 
shed at the corner of the house ; and then a path went 
on through the garden down to the far corner, where, 
under another apple-tree, was a cool rock-spring. The 
large elms stood nearer the street than the house, and 
the branches, being high, did not shut off the sunlight 
or make the garden too shady. In addition to the two 
apple-trees already mentioned, there were three others 
back of the house, and some of them bent low with red 
and golden winter fruit — not ripe enough yet to tempt 
the small boys ; and there were besides one pear and 
one cherry tree. The rooms were low, and there were 
beams overhead, for the house had been built nearly 
fourscore years, but its stanch timbers bid fair to out- 
last many a “ balloon frame” just going up. 

In all the world Alice thought there could not be a 
place sweeter for a home; and as she peeped into clos- 
ets and cupboards, and thought how soon they would 
become identified with their personal belongings and 
needs, be a part of their daily lives, her heart went out 
in a thrill of love and welcoming for every beam and 
hook and shelf in the old house, that was new to her 
life of rented dwelling-places. She hung an old coat of 
her father’s in his closet, and then laughed aloud with 
glee to think that, God willing, that was to be his place 


270 


FATHER'S HOUSE. 


all his life long; and every echo in the cheerful old 
house seemed to answer back her delight. 

Tuesday morning dawned fair and clear, though it 
seemed a great while in coming to three pairs of wake- 
ful eyes. Hilda had procured a substitute for her place 
in the mill, and anticipated her day of busy work as the 
best holiday of her life. Mr. Duncan and Rob must 
take their dinner, and the father received many charges 
on no account to show his face at the new home until 
supper, at half-past six. 

Soon after the wagon was at the door, the goods 
were packed, and the dreary place in the lane was left 
with no shedding of tears. The “moving” was not 
exactly as though they owned a great supply of furni- 
ture, and it did n’t take half as long as they could have 
wished to spread out their dishes on the shelves, hang 
up their wardrobes, and make up the beds. Still it was 
a busy day, for the clean white curtains had to be put 
up, and their few pictures hung ; and then Alice, who 
had found some russet-brown and crimson leaves, must 
make little knots of them and hang them about the 
kitchen wall ; and though the stove had been blacked 
only the day before, Hilda was sure it had been rubbed 
on the way over, and must be polished anew ; and the 
two braided mats must be laid in every possible posi- 
tion, finally to go back to the first choice. In short, it 
was just such a busy day of arranging and changing 
as the feminine heart delights in. 


THE REWARD. 


271 


Six o’ clock and Rob came together. The table 
was drawn out and spread with the whitest tablecloth 
they owned, the plate of bread, another of warm gin- 
ger-cake, and a dish of baked apples from their own 
trees; and in the oven, a piece of beef roasting and 
some potatoes baking, gave forth savory odors to hun- 
gry workers. Everything was doing its hearty best for 
the welcome to the father. 

He came in sight at last; Rob and Bess raced up 
from the gate together to announce the fact. The girls 
hurried the rest of the things on the table and bustled 
about, that father might forget the emotion they knew 
must be his at coming in at that door again. But he 
met them with his quiet, pleasant smile, and passed 
through the kitchen to his own bedroom in as natural 
a manner as though nearly fifteen years had not passed 
since he was at home there. When he came out ready 
for supper, they gave him but little time for looking 
about, but hurried him to his place. 

“Seems to me this is quite an extra supper,” he 
said, after grace, as he carved the roast. 

“Why, of course, father; we’re celebrating our 
freedom from the lane,” said Hilda. 

“Yes, father, this is a very extra supper,” put in 
Rob. “ There are some most unusual dishes,” and he 
glanced at a covered vegetable-dish on a small table, 
which -Hilda had told them was to be the last thing 
attended to. 


272 


FA THERMS HOUSE. 


“ 1 do wish I knew what was in that dish,” said 
Bess eagerly. 

“ O Curiosity, thy name is Bessie Duncan,” retorted 
her brother. 

“ No, it is n’t, either,” she protested; “ but if I only 
knew, then I could tell how much appetite to save for 
it. Once, don’t you know, we had apple- dumplings, 
and Alice did n’t tell me, and I ate so much of other 
things, I could n’t eat a bit hardly, and I felt dreadfully. 
And I do n’t believe I ’ve any more curiosity than you 
have any way, Rob Duncan.” 

“ I haven’t a bit; sha’ n’t save a bit of appetite for 
that unknown dish; presume it’s dry as a chip, any 
way; made out of paper, perhaps,” with a laugh. 

The supper was a lively one to all, and in spite of 
the girl’s assertions that they never could eat a mouth- 
ful while in such a state of expectation, they did make 
quite a respectable meal. Mr. Duncan, too, seemed to 
enjoy it right well. 

“ It seems good not to hear Mother Flanigan’s 
rocking-chair going overhead,” he said once. 

“And, father, these apples came off our own trees,” 
said Alice, as she reached for a second. 

But at last everybody seemed satisfied, and Rob 
exclaimed, “ Bring on your covered and mysterious 
dish, Hilda.” 

And Hilda, pale with excitement, responded. 

“ Let father serve it,” she said, placing it before him. 


THE REWARD. 


273 


Mr. Duncan lifted the cover slowly, and with eyes 
turned to watch Bess, who was a miniature Eve just 
then in point of curiosity. As he saw the blank ex- 
pression that came over the child’s face, he turned his 
eyes back to the dish, and saw there nothing at first ; 
then looking more closely, he discovered a folded pa- 
per. Slowly he drew it out, adjusted his glasses, and 
drew the lamp toward him. Slowly, oh, how slowly, it 
seemed to the impatient lookers-on, he unfolded it and 
began to read. 

The scene just then might have served for a picture, 
if the artist could have caught the wondering expres- 
sion of the father’s face, the eager, watchful look of the 
three who had waited so long for this hour, and were 
now leaning forward with parted lips and almost bated 
breath, and the questioning surprise of Bessie as she 
gazed at each in turn. 

Slowly Mr. Duncan read the whole paper through, 
and then raising his eyes, looked in turn into each face 
there, and what he saw in them seemed to furnish the 
key ; as if the paper had been written in a strange lan- 
guage, and he needed a sight of familiar characters to 
make it plain. He found them in the loving and rejoi- 
cing faces of his children, and the father bowed his head 
upon his hands and wept, while the other eyes were not 
dry. 

“ Why, Hilda, what is the matter ? what does it all 
mean ?” asked Bess, with a great tremble in her voice. 
35 


Father’s House. 


274 


FATHER'S HOUSE. 


“ It means, dear,” answered her sister, with a smile 
and tears both on her face, “ that this house and grouild 
are your papa’s for ever, and that we are not going to 
move away from here unless we want to.” 

“Not move about any more at all ?” 

“ No, I trust not.” 

“Then I shall have a play-house big enough to 
stand up in, built right out under the elm, and move 
all my things in it at once,” remarked Bess. 

“ What a charming prospect it will make !” ex- 
claimed her brother, and the sisters, as ready to do one 
thing as another, laughed out heartily. 

And so, by a trifle, the pleasure that was so great 
as to be almost pain, lost its intense excitement, and 
remained a permanent, precious fact, to be talked over 
and explained and dilated upon to any amount. Then 
first Mr. Duncan learned of the four years of self-de- 
nial, of loving planning, of patient waiting, and both 
his heart and lips were ready to say, as they did, “ God 
be thanked for my children.” 

Standing together that night by their open window, 
the sisters spoke long of the steps that had led them to 
this hour, and the joy they had been enabled to bring 
to their dear father, and after one and another putting 
down of selfish desires and unnecessary habits had 
been recalled, Hilda turned, with a hand-clasp that was 
fully met, and said, “ But ah, Alice, to-night does n’t it 
pay?” 


THE REWARD. 


2 75 


And with a fulness of meaning that only those can 
understand who have known what it is to cherish noble 
desires and emotions in the heart, until they have be- 
come fixed and stable principles, the yielding of whose 
fruit is satisfaction and peace, the sisters united in 
thanksgiving to Him whose gift it had all been. 

One more glance at the Elm Cottage before the 
leaves of its history are closed. Five years have slip- 
ped past on rapid wing before another September 
evening when you may meet your old-time friends 
again. The little home has improved somewhat; it 
has been painted a French gray, and the trimmings 
and blinds are of a darker shade. There are vines and 
lattice-work and a few choice flowers. 

The door is open, and you see that the parlor is a 
bright, pleasant place, with ingrain carpet and cane- 
seat chairs, with many home-made brackets and some 
choice books, and a little cabinet of curious stones and 
shells — Rob’s pet fancy — and everything cosey and 
home-like. But the kitchen is little changed. There 
the table is so faultlessly spread, and there is such an 
appearance of animation about every one, that we know 
something unusual has happened, and as we note that 
Alice has on a travelling dress, and that every one is 
so remarkably attentive to her possible needs, we make 
up our minds that she has just been welcomed home 
from a long absence ; and we are right. 


2^6 


FA THERE HOUSE . 


For nearly three years after the new home was 
gained Hilda worked on in her place in the mill with 
the same patient, earnest spirit that had already won 
her so many friends. But then came a severe attack 
of illness, and on her recovery good Dr. Thorne said 
he “didn’t quite know about such steady work for 
her;” he was “ afraid she could n’t stand it.” 

“And she sha’n’t, either,” said Rob. “She is not 
going to work there again. I have a good salary now, 
and father is as young as he was ten years ago ; so 
that’s settled.” 

And Alice helped it, too, for she had been invited 
to teach the large district school up at her aunt Ra- 
chel’s home, and now she accepted the offer and left 
Hilda to be housekeeper. There Alice has been ever 
since, coming home in the spring and fall vacations, 
and happy as a queen with her “nice big boys” and 
“ brightest little girls in the world.” 

Schoolgirl Bess, with her fifteen-year-old ways, is 
the one of the family party who seems to have changed 
the most. 

“ It ’s good to go away for the sake of coming home 
again,” Alice said, declining Rob’s offer of a third bis- 
cuit. 

“ Yes, and to hear all that ’s happened,” put in Bess. 

“ Oh, did I write you,” said Hilda, “ that Mrs. Stod- 
dard — Miss Flagg, you know, she was — called here on 
her last visit ?” 


THE REWARD . 


2 77 


“ No ; did she ?” 

“Yes, with her husband; and, Alice, she said I 
must surely come and see her this fall. It isn’t far, 
you know, and Connie says she has a most beautiful 
home, but the same kind heart as of old.” 

“You shall go, Hilda, while I am at home. And 
how are Connie and Margie ?” 

“ Busy and thoughtful as ever.” 

“ And little May Agnew ?” 

“ Oh, do n’t, Alice !” cried Rob ; “ there never was, 
nor ever again will be, such an infant prodigy as that 
young miss — in Hilda’s eyes, I mean ; so forbear.” 

“ For shame, Rob 1” laughed his sister. 

“ And Naomi ?” asked Alice. 

“ Well and busy. Has another little girl now ; she 
says it ’s too lonesome for poor Lizzie to stay alone 
while she ’s gone all day.” 

“ Is n’t that grand ? but it ’s just like her. And 
what is Kate doing?” 

“ Poor girl, she does n’t amount to much. Her 
mother is on the town, you know.” 

And so on through many names we do not know. 
But by-and-by a tap announced a caller, who proved 
to be Lissa. 

“ I thought I must look at the bairn ; she ’s always 
welcome back,” she said in her hearty way, shaking 
Alice’s hand until it seemed likely to come off. 

“ And I ’m just as glad to come,” Alice answered 


278 


FATHER'S HOUSE. 


when, about to take her leave for the night, Lissa re- 
peated nearly the same words of welcome. 

“ Ah, yes,” said the good woman, standing in the 
doorway and still holding the girl’s hand, “ and that ’s 
the beauty of it always. We all have the heart-long- 
ing and the forward-looking to the getting home. And 
the good Lord placed that in our souls for a drawing- 
string from himself, that should leave us satisfied only 
as we are turning towards him and the home of his 
preparing. You know that, bairns.” 

“ Surely, we trust so,” answered Hilda softly. 

“ Ah, surely. And if the greetings of the earthly 
home you worked so hard to win be sweet, what will 
it be, bairns, when the Master speaks his welcome to 
the mansion he has prepared above ! Ah, it is not 
long to wait, but it is long to win. Are not you glad ?” 

And this time both said, “ Surely.” 


































































































































































































































































































































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